Dazzleland
by BigPink
Summary: “Someone goes over Niagara in a barrel. You gonna jump in and try to save them?” – Dean Winchester, Crossroad Blues. Sam’s making plans, and they don’t include his father or hunting. They might not even include Dean. High school in two time periods.
1. Chapter 1

**Dazzleland**

**Summary**: "Someone goes over Niagara in a barrel. You gonna jump in and try to save them?" – _Dean Winchester, Crossroad Blues._ Sam's making plans, and they don't include his father or hunting. They might not even include Dean. High school in two time periods.

**Rating: **Gen, PG-13: swearing, violence, maybe some sex later on. If you buy me dinner first. WIP, will be 10 chapters.

**Spoilers**: up to and including _Croatoan_. In the _Red_ 'verse, but you can read this without reading that.

'**Tis the season**: Lemmypie phoned Tennessee convenience stores for me. Jmm0001 nudged me for more, more, more, even though she despises the title. It'll grow on you. Promise.

--

**Chapter One/Key to the Highway**

_Outside Greenwood MS, present day_

A rush to leave, no real reason for the hurry, no hell hounds chasing them, no new thing to kill. Only the delta smell of standing water seeping through a gap in the Impala's window, Dean's prickly silence hidden by the smoke of an old guitar and a long-dead voice singing of keys to a highway. The highway was unknown to Sam, both the ancient bluesy one crackling through the Impala's radio and the one they were on. Take that any way you liked.

Of these things, Dean's silence was the hardest for Sam to endure. Nothing so unusual about a long pause, not where Dean was concerned, but this one was toxic, somehow, because of what had been said before it.

The flat estuary lands fled by in the darkness, nothing moving but them, always.

"Demons lie all the time, right?" Sam cajoled, tried to sound reasonable. Reasonable sometimes worked with Dean. Every once in a great while. "Maybe she was lying."

Dean wasn't going to go for that, though, not tonight. Not after what he'd told Sam the demon had said. _If you knew where he really was…_

"C'mon, that really what you think?" They shared a quick look, and Sam knew that was all the attention Dean was going to give him, because Sam could have _looking_ and he could have _talking_, but not at the same time, usually. Dean's attention was back to the road, mouth chewing anger like doublemint. "How could he do it?"

Exquisite balancing act for Sam. Luckily, he'd had practice, though these were higher stakes than ever before. "He did it for you," Sam murmured, soft and distinct. No way to avoid Dean's bitterness, not unless he shut up altogether.

"Exactly. How'm I supposed to live with that?" That served up with a hard smile. Sam kept quiet, knew Dean wasn't finished. "You know, the thought of him," brows lifting like he was amused, was anything but, "wherever he is right now…I mean, he spent his whole life chasin' that…" caught not on the word 'fucking' so much as on sheer _hatred_, "yellow-eyed son of a bitch. He should have gone out fighting. That was supposed to be his legacy, you know? Not bargaining with the damn thing." Dean stared at the road as though it had done something unforgivable. "Not this."

His fury was vast and primal, was so unlike Dean, and Sam held onto the concept of 'reasonable' as a safe path out of the burning building Dean had lit up.

"How many people do you think Dad saved, total?"

"That's not the point, Sam."

Dean's profile was set against the speeding dark riverlands, and there was no way he'd look at Sam again, so Sam kept going. "Evan Hudson is safe because of what dad taught us." As though by sheer force of will, he could make Dean turn, as if by turning he'd be safe. Whole. "That's his legacy, Dean." Sam saw the swallow Dean took, still staring at the road, overwhelmed. "Now, we're still here, man. We gotta keep goin'. For him." Like that would matter to Dean. It almost didn't matter to Sam. He said it, heard the words coming from his mouth, knew if he said them enough times they would become true.

For him, at least.

Not for Dean; he couldn't hear what Sam was trying to tell him. Later, maybe, if Dean got later, because something else occurred to Sam. "Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah." Too fast, same way he had since they were kids, not inviting more, but letting Sam know that he'd been heard.

_Putting up with me and my stupid questions._

"When you were trapping that demon, you weren't…" and what the fuck was that in his voice, an interloper, a seed from childhood, sprouting a new shoot. _Fear_. "I mean, it was all a trick, right? You never actually considered making that…deal. Right?"

_Oh, please, Dean. Please._

But Dean only checked the sideview mirror, making sure that no one was following them maybe, but more likely signaling that he wanted Sam to shut the fuck up, and underlined it by changing the radio station. Loud unmelodic music in the key of hell. _Fuck off, Sam_.

A huge fear clawed its way up Sam's throat, because he knew. He'd asked, but he already knew. Had known for a long time of the damage done to Dean, chest running with blood, the floor splattered with it, _they don't need you, not like you need them_, and any deal Dean could think to make with a demon or a god wasn't going to be enough to compensate for what he'd already given up, what had been taken, and those heavy awful things left in their place. John Winchester's soul was a feather against the weight Dean carried, and Sam recognized the imbalance, even if he didn't know the details.

It wasn't as though Dean was going to tell him, either.

In a general way, Sam knew _words_ from Dean were rapid and dense and frequent. And by the same lights, that Dean's _voice_ was a rare thing for all that. He'd learned that the hard way, learned to see forest and learned to see trees.

The music was obnoxious and Sam let his question go, amazed that something as insubstantial as airwaves could become such a wall.

--

_Niagara Falls NY, 2000_

Sam tried to make up a smart-ass name for the place, but it was so ridiculous to start with, he really didn't have to try that hard: Niagara Falls High School. What was their mascot? A guy in a barrel?

Brand new building, nothing worked right, shiny and spacious. Same old battered text books, kids that had known each other since kindergarten and tall Sam Winchester thrown into the middle of it like a sacrificial offering, a stick over the edge of a bridge, heading for the rapids.

They'd been in Niagara Falls for three days, and he hadn't even gone to look.

Dean and their father had, sure. The reason they were here, Sam supposed, not really remembering the conversations in the front seat of the Impala on the way north, something about a guy named McGreevy, and obsessions and 'not quite right'. And who cared? Aside from Dean, anyway?

Finding his assigned locker out of the banks of color-coded hallways was hard enough without trying to figure out what supernatural bee had flown up dad's butt this time. Niagara fucking Falls. Tourist traps weren't usually on John Winchester's list of family vacation hot spots. Actually, family vacations weren't on John Winchester's list of anything. But here they were, for the _time being_, as John pointed out, which was all the time Sam had.

He'd kept the same lock for three years now, miraculously hanging on to something from previous schools, liking the fact that the combination was easy to remember: 3-14-15. Pi: endless division of a circle into three equal and indefinable parts, magic number unable to be truly understood.

Shit, yeah, that would impress the girls. Maybe he should join the chess club like Dean had suggested this morning, grin shit-eating big. Make new friends.

Last thing he wanted to do. In the midst of the teeming after-school crowd, Sam found his locker, spun the dial and yanked open the door, checking over his shoulder as he did so. Rocket-thin for his age, new kid, quiet except when asked a direct question, perfect target for any jock looking to up his social capital. He knew the drill, had plenty of practice.

Track, not chess, Dean. _Loser_.

He jammed books into his backpack, and it would be heavy. He barely remembered how to get back to the apartment their dad had rented for the month. One month. Maybe he wouldn't try out for track. Committing to anything was hard when you never knew what city – hell, what state – you'd be in next month. Hey coach, we're done with Niagara ghosts, moving on to Louisiana zombies. Sorry, I'll have to skip the track meet.

Someone jostled him from behind and he half-turned, realized a group of tall slender boys had congregated by the open classroom door; they looked like half the basketball team. They were harassing a heavy-set kid with a face too expressive for his own good, passing him around as though he were a joint or a hot potato. Sam moved out the way, and the kid banged into the locker beside Sam's. He was all huge white t-shirt and baggy pants, and he grinned good naturedly at Sam, then walked quickly the other way, but not before Sam saw the thin edge of panic reflected in his full moon glasses.

The basketball team's laughter floated down the hallway as they wheeled away in the opposite direction as tightly formed and as lethal as a Luftwaffe squadron.

Sam shook his head, not wanting to know what the politics were. Cocksure jocks; oddball kid wearing his soul like a corporate logo. Didn't take a genius to figure it out and he wasn't going to be here long enough to get involved, so why let it waste any gray matter?

Trouble was, Sam always took note of these things, had a continuous and running tally of injustices filed away for later examination.

A group of girls, bright and hard as chickadees mid-winter, chattered by a locker across the hall from him and he heard snatches of 'dance' and 'party' and swearing that had to do with someone's boyfriend. Near the water fountain, a clutch of Asian boys argued about what might have been some video game, something about levels and killshots and car chases. No one spoke about classes, for all that most of them would be graduating this year, would be leaving school for other places of shiny new promise. And Sam?

But that was beyond Sam's 'time being' and so he slammed the metal door shut with more force than was needed, shouldered the backpack, ignored the students around him, acutely aware that his jeans were frayed and his denim shirt not terribly clean – blood was a bitch to get out – and his hair four months past its last cut, the latter mostly to piss off Dad.

Out the wide concrete steps, should have brought a jacket at least. Late September and the air was like cut glass, the leaves just starting to turn, everything all around thinking about dying for a few months. His route, as far as he remembered it, was long but not difficult. The apartment was above a Chinese grocery on a main street, three rooms, partially furnished. A little mirror above the door that had made John grimace: _feng shui_. Well, why the hell not, Dad? That any weirder than the usual crap you pull bead on?

Anything that redirected bad spirits was okay in Sam's books. He allowed a grin as he hurried off the pristine and anonymous school grounds, swinging with one hand around the chainlink fence, ignoring the pickets of students who watched him go, regimented and close-ranked as an established military junta. Maybe he should read up on _feng shui_, start putting mirrors up everywhere, basins of water, watch out for straight lines, and re-orient their beds so their feet didn't point to the doors. Make dad crazy.

Not a bad neighborhood for a brand-new school, but boring in its residential way, slapped together like a badly-planned potluck dinner, too many bean salads and only one dessert. Houses all looked too similar, construction materials the cheapest money could buy. Two blocks onto the older main strip, a seedy relic of Niagara's glory days, like no one was paying much attention to what humans had made here, what with the natural fucking wonder just a half mile away. _No one cares about this place_, he thought. _Least of all me_.

Twenty minutes walking fast with that load of books on his back and he'd sweated through his white t-shirt, right through the denim shirt. Usual stores lined the busy street: a check-cashing outlet, convenience store, dollar mart, pokey family-run pharmacy doomed by the big box up the street. One or two location-specific joints: a wax museum, a tourist trinket shop, two different tour bus operators, all blatantly flogging their prime resource, all limping along indifferently.

In contrast to these imitation businesses purveying empty product, the Chinese grocery offered bright vegetables under a tattered awning, announcing itself as too fresh for this kind of town. Sam recognized the lychee nuts bundled together like weird kindling and the lush green leaves of vegetables he couldn't name. This morning, John had given Sam two keys: one was for the street-level door beside a broken crate that had once seen persimmons safe to Niagara Falls. Sam unlocked the door and loped up the creaky stairs, turned the corner at the top and stopped at the hollow wood door decorated with a desultory plastic 3.

Dean had apologized this morning, a pre-emptive move designed to prepare Sam for something he already knew: the hunt came first, tell us about your new school when we get back. So no one was home, and it took him a few seconds to work the newly-cut key into the reluctant lock. His picks would be faster. No salt across the threshold, though, and that was a positive sign. Dad was in a good mood, hadn't yet picked up enough information to get paranoid.

Sam threw his backpack onto the threadbare sofa, went directly to the fridge and pulled out a jug of chocolate milk. He was civilized enough to get a plastic cup from the cupboard. The living room was also the dining room and was also the kitchen. It was the armory too, apparently, since several bags of weapons were deposited in the corner by the television, a flannel sheet over the coffee table, bits of gun scattered across it.

Sam kicked off his sneakers, slid the gun cleaning to the side with one foot, and unzipped his backpack, the chocolate milk cradled against his chest. A mess of papers and hardcover texts were jammed in the bulging backpack, but he looked for the stapled softcover book that his homeroom teacher had given him.

'_Niagara Falls High School Welcomes You!_' it declared in bright cheery letters, with a black and white photo of the new school. He flipped open the booklet, only to discover a line drawing of the school mascot: a guy in a fucking barrel, the Niagara Falls Daredevils. Jesus Christ. Followed by thirty odd pages of rules and 'useful tips'.

Did they include a section on getting blood out of clothing? Cause that would be useful as hell. Sam was glad that the student handbook welcomed him, because the school itself sure hadn't.

As usual, he'd just shown up that morning, a tatty package of past report cards in his hand, must be at least twenty of them by now, a copy of the rental agreement providing proof of residency. At least Dad had said he could register in his own name, which always made things easier. The school's main office counter was higher than necessary, created the same inviting ambience as a big-city cab with a Plexiglas shield.

School administrators were a breed apart, had been genetically engineered to give you a hard time, viewed students as the enemy. Sam hadn't even tried charm, just stayed firm and quiet and had eventually been given a student number and a homeroom and a stack of forms for his dad to sign, or for Dean to forge, whichever was more convenient. An appointment to see a guidance counselor to figure out his course load if he wanted to graduate in the spring.

Again, 'time being' the only time Sam could contemplate. Graduation was a mirage, not so much unattainable as pointless.

He looked around him: shitty apartment, table full of gun parts, a television that hardly worked, a fridge containing only chocolate milk and pizza pockets – Dean had obviously done the groceries – and a fraternal bedroom with two single beds, his not nearly long enough. But most importantly, something to hunt, which was all that mattered to Dad.

Sam wasn't in the mood for homework, for studying. He didn't want to watch TV, even if the damned box had picked up more than a few grainy Canadian channels. He barely wanted the chocolate milk, though he downed it all, carefully set the cup among the lethal clutter on the table.

He wanted something that wasn't here, that was all.

That combination lock had survived three moves now. Back at the school, outside this room, it hung on his locker like a talisman, a sign that maybe Sam existed outside the confines of shitty motels and apartments, outside the incessantly moving Impala, that he could stay in one place, not be a piece of John Winchester's flotsam, detritus from a shipwreck seventeen years old.

--

_Rockwood TN, present day_

Somewhere between Nashville and Knoxville you lost an hour, and Dean always hated that, felt like he was getting ripped off in cosmic terms. Almost laughed at that as he finally spotted a 'vacancies' sign that was attached to something that didn't look like it would give him a disease he'd need ointment for. Almost laughed – losing an hour of his life should mean nothing to him. It was all borrowed time, wasn't it? His river had run its course, and for whatever reason, whatever bargain had been made without his consent, it ran on, against nature. He was still going, a dead man walking.

And Dad? Well, he was just a dead man. And if only that was the whole truth, Dean might sleep easier at night. Might sleep, period.

He eased the car into park and opened the door at the same time, anxious to stretch his legs, to snatch back that hour somehow, maybe walk a little ways west to catch it. He stared across the Impala's roof at Sam, who had gotten out more slowly, like he was hurting.

The hell hound hadn't touched him, Dean knew that. Other things had, though. Sam had said it himself, weeks ago now. _I'm not okay_. A day late and several dollars short, and Sam would have to live with himself and his last words to John for the rest of his life.

_Less okay now, after what that bitch said_, Dean thought. _Shoulda kept that to myself, maybe._ But he was sick of keeping things to himself, literally sick with it, could barely hold it all in, and then he was slamming the door shut and walking round to the trunk to get their things. A night here, then move, though he had no idea where, just needed to keep going, like that would make things better, like they'd actually get someplace they'd want to be.

Inside, the room was exactly as he imagined it from the outside: anonymous in its generic shabbiness, no spark of creativity, everything functional and perfunctory. Cheap in every sense of the word. Perfect, because though he'd often taken great pleasure in finding the weirdest fucking motels on the planet, the ones with furniture made from buffalo horns, with vintage 70s wallpaper, and clocks shaped like animals, he was tired of it, exhausted by the search for novelty. Just wanted beige, suddenly, a blank canvas.

"Sam, you should," and couldn't finish the sentence. Like he should be giving advice to anyone. Sam blinked once, eyes squinting as though the bedside lamp was too bright. Dead on his feet.

But he nodded, willing to take the advice. That was new. "Sure." He glanced at his watch, the room not having even a digital clock. He shook his head. Wasn't particularly late, but sleep was its own way of coping. Sam could sleep his way through Armageddon. Dean's lips twitched. Maybe they'd get a chance to find out if that was true.

Sam stripped down, dropped into the bed with a muffled moan of sleepy pleasure. Dean shoved the necessaries into the tiny bathroom: a shaving kit, the red first aid bag, a new tube of toothpaste Sam had remembered to buy at the last gas station they'd stopped at. Maybe thirty seconds, tops, but Sam was fast asleep by the time Dean came back into the room.

Dean stared at the furry dark head against the reasonably white pillowcase, wanting nothing more than for him to be safe. Found he was biting the inside of his mouth, hard. Shit, he wasn't going to stay here and watch Sam sleep. Even he knew that wasn't a good idea, no matter the number of times he'd done it in the past.

Quietly, he slipped on his leather coat, checked that his Glock was loaded, positioned it carefully under his shirt in the small of his back. A precaution. He took out two hunting knives from the duffle bag and slid one quickly under Sam's pillow, because Sam usually forgot things like that. The other he tucked into his boot.

Not unhinged, no matter what Sam thought. Prepared. There was a difference, because he knew what was out there.

He tried a bar first, because he thought he wanted some company, was how he initially identified the desire burning through him like a shot of bourbon. Bars were usually good places for him and his smile. A round of darts, a few bucks, a game of pool, figure out which girl might be willing to follow him back to the Impala.

A quick fuck in the parking lot was all the distraction he could afford, was all the distraction he wanted.

Not even that, he discovered. Opportunity was not the problem: two blondes, one of them natural, both fetching in the typical roadhouse way, the prettier one with a boyfriend who was too drunk to make a decent obstacle. And Dean wanted the boyfriend to notice, wanted that more than he wanted the fuck. _Turn around asshole, I'm about to bang your girlfriend_ – looked to her hand resting on his thigh as she stood too close to his seat at the bar – _your wife, shitforbrains, least you could do is give me a run for the money._

He didn't want to fuck; he wanted to fight. Or, more precisely, he wanted to kill something so bad he ached all over and he hadn't had so much alcohol that he failed to recognize what a bad place a roadside bar in an unfamiliar town was when this mood struck.

To be fair, though, he'd never really been in this mood before, so didn't quite know what to make of it.

_Cut your losses, then, Winchester_. He said goodbye to the regretful bottle blonde and the attentive natural one, put on his coat, was steady enough to drive. Idea: Find an open convenience store, grab some cold ones, go back to the motel and try hard not to kill anything. A noble plan.

There was nothing convenient about Rockwood, though; stores shut up at midnight, making Dean's plan more difficult than it ought to be. Fucking Tennessee and their fucking stupid liquor laws. But maybe four miles up the road, he'd cross that magic line, go back in time, and hit a fucking store that was still open because midnight hadn't happened yet.

He pulled out of Rockwood, the surrounding forest low and ominous, a pretend forest compared to ones in Washington, and turned up the music loud so he didn't have to think. Westal flashed past, everything dark and sleeping. Another mile or so and he came to Ozone – who the fuck called a town Ozone? Right up there with Concrete as a name to make the Chamber of Commerce proud. And there, the Friendly Mart & Beverage with a neon 'open' sign. _That_ looked promising. Cold beer was his criteria, not too high a fucking standard.

The store was lit up like electricity was free, and the counter clerk gave him a thorough once-over as soon as he was through the door, the overhead bell signaling his arrival like a medieval herald.

Dean glanced back at the colored stripe running up the door jamb. "I'm 6'1", in case you're wondering," he said to the clerk, who was probably five inches shy of six foot. But the kid had to wear a folded paper hat, so Dean counseled some cutting of slack. Poor fucker, stuck in Ozone Tennessee with a dorky hat past midnight by someone's clock. Dean's watch still said 11:30 and he was going with that, would live in this borrowed time for as long as he could.

_Fuck the demon, any demon._

Actually had to stand still for a minute, thinking that, amazed at how fast the flush of adrenaline washed over him, prickling face probably either beet red or ghost white, hard to tell without a mirror. Oh, wait there is a mirror, one of those fisheye ones so the sixteen-year-old clerk could make sure he wasn't stuffing bags of Doritos down his pants. Glancing into the reflective curve, Dean waved at the kid, headed for the bank of glass-fronted coolers, trying to think of nothing but beer.

_I'm fine,_ he told himself. _I just need to get used to things, is all_.

There was quite a selection, and though Dean wasn't fussy, he suddenly realized he didn't have a whole lot of cash in his wallet, either. He brought it out, knew that one of his credit cards would probably manage it, but who wanted to use it for that if he could scrape together enough change? Three one-dollar bills. Some coins rattling around in his front pocket. He was counting quarters when the bell rang again, and Dean paid it not one bit of attention, not until he heard the clerk stammering, "Anything you want! Anything you want!"

_Aw, fuck, not this shit. I just want a beer._

Dean backed up against an aisle of peanut butter, eyes on the fisheye mirror. Two guys, one short, one tall, ski masks over their heads. Must be sweating like pigs under those, he thought unsympathetically. Two guns, one held at an awkward angle, a clumsy grip that would probably result in missing fingers if it was actually fired. If it was loaded, which was debatable. The other guy, the taller of the two, held his gun low, easy. Probably knew how to use it. The brains behind this sophisticated operation. _These idiots don't know what they're doing. I can wait them out._

Still, idiots with guns were still technically _armed_, and Dean didn't really want to end up bleeding to death on the Friendly Mart floor because a scared, drug-addled kid got jammed up, so he stayed where he was.

"You alone?" one of the robbers drawled, Tennessee accent turning it to an invitation, made a convenience store holdup sound like a cotillion.

Then Dean thought about the question. _Shit_. He stepped away from the peanut butter just as he heard the clerk squeak, "No. No, there's a guy-" and might have pointed to the back, Dean supposed. He sighed, held his arms out from his sides.

"Over here," he barked, coming slowly forward. He rounded a pyramid of canned soup, kept his hands where the youngsters could see them. If they pulled off those masks, the clerk would probably recognize them. Hell, the counter kid probably knew exactly who they were, went to school with them. Maybe they were all in it together. He didn't much care. _All I want is a beer_.

"Keep them where we can see 'em!" the short one shouted, excited.

_Fuck, that's what I'm doing, asshole_. "Give them the till," Dean spoke quietly to the clerk, who was whey pale, looked as though he was going to barf. And didn't move a muscle.

"The safe's locked," the kid replied.

The taller of the two pulled back his handgun's hammer with a cartoon click. Dean refrained from rolling his eyes. "Give him what you've got," he continued, voice soft, falling into persuasion, falling into that soft caramel tone that ought to make him feel ill, but right now he wasn't feeling much of anything except thirsty.

The clerk shook his head.

"Give him what you've got or I'll come back there and get it myself."

"You!" Shorty again. Dean could see a soft downy moustache above crooked teeth. Kids, out for a thrill, probably. "Hands on your head."

Dean laced his fingers together behind his head and turned to the taller guy, glanced down at the gun. A Beretta, probably a dad in the Air Force. Might have been taken out and given range practice. Probably knew how to use it. A mistake, though to pay that much attention, because Tall gave him a look and swung the gun around to Dean, correctly ascertaining where the threat truly lay.

Neither robber was particularly calm. Actually, though he was the one with the gun pointed at his head, Dean was the calmest in the store. "Um, Friendly Mart Boy, you should give them the money and let them get the hell out of here."

Shorty was behind the counter now, going through the till, thank god. Thirty more seconds and this would be over.

Except, "That's your car out there?"

Huh. He was going to go there, was he? _Ambitious bastard._ Dean didn't look at Tall, kept his hands on his head, stared at Shorty's back; the brainless putz had put his gun on the counter in front of the clerk so he'd have both hands to break open the cigarette case. Dean decided that the clerk was definitely in on it. Dean still didn't care.

"Which car?" Dean exchanged that question for an extra few seconds as he shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet.

"Black one, Kansas plates."

"Yeah, that's his," the clerk volunteered and Dean hoped Shorty would get carried away and just plug him, except that Shorty was now stuffing cigarettes into a plastic bag and was ignoring the gun still resting beside a glass jar of pepperoni sticks. "Keys are in his right pocket, leather coat."

_Observant little fuckwad, wasn't he?_

"You can give me your coat, too," Tall said, and smiled.

Slowly, Dean lowered his hands, didn't look at Tall, because apparently Tall had already recognized a murderous look and Dean didn't want to give him any extra warning. He leaned back like he was just shrugging out of his coat, instead grabbed a can of soup from the pile and swung it into Tall's face like it was a brick, breaking his nose with a fantastic crack, not stopping until the Campbell's Mushroom found teeth.

Dean would have broken fingers on a punch like that, but the can was barely dented, would maybe have to be marked down, but was otherwise intact. With his other hand, Dean grabbed the Beretta from a now loose grip, slid it across the floor where it spun under the magazine rack. Tall was bent over, blood pouring between his empty fingers. Then Dean brought up his knee, the hard cap smashing into Tall's face again, sending him flying backwards.

Only then did he spare a glance to Shorty, who stood transfixed behind the counter, a carton of Kools in one hand, mouth open behind the mask. _Go for it,_ Dean whispered, not sure whether he said it out loud, eyes darting to Shorty's gun, a million miles away on the counter.

Just stupid enough, apparently.

The robber made a sudden grab for the gun, and Dean shook his head in irritation, whipped out his Glock from his waistband and aimed, right wrist supported by his left hand. Shorty stopped cold, eyes landing on his partner bleeding on the floor, then to the gun on the counter and back to Dean.

Who said nothing. He was surprised that he had no clear idea of what he wanted to happen.

The clerk started screaming. Either he was in on it, or he wasn't, but he obviously now anticipated a shoot out that he hadn't been planning on when he unfolded his paper hat to start his shift today. He dropped to the floor behind the counter, shrieking, the noise of it in no way muffled by his new position. Dean got ready to leave, mostly because he was just too irritated to help anyone, least of all the pimply clerk.

At that moment, though, Dean felt a hand curl around his ankle and the convenience store turned sideways, like someone had dropped a video recorder. _Fuck it, this is getting out of hand_, he thought from the floor, then didn't think of anything much else because Tall was getting to his knees and earlier that evening Dean had wanted to kill something and here was a _something_ just lurching into his line of fire, who the fuck would blame him?

Dean rolled to his feet, ripped off Tall's ski mask with one hand, brought the butt of the Glock down with the other, toppled Tall like a Doug fir. Dean savored that, could predict how Tall would come crashing down, how his head would hit the ground with a bounce, exactly the angle and trajectory of his fall.

Dean found time, everything slowed and he saw what he needed to do as vividly as though he'd been given a shopping list. This time, he did it with his fists, landed blows so fast and hard that he didn't actually feel the impact until his whole right hand flared with cold pain, then flattened to a peculiar numbness, not dissimilar to what had settled over him since John Winchester had died.

When his hand twanged dangerously, Dean started in with his boots, each kick finding purchase, his shins singing with effort. When he was sure Tall wasn't getting up again, he tucked the Glock into the back of his jeans, turned to find Shorty pointing his gun at him, the clerk still making unbearable noises from behind the counter.

_Guess I shouldn't have been so focused_, Dean thought. He wasn't concerned at all.

"Give me your keys," Shorty said through clenched teeth.

"No fucking way," Dean returned. He hoped this asshole would fire the gun. He'd fucking kill himself, way he was holding it. No such luck, and Dean could see it, could actually see when the holdup kid decided that he didn't have the guts. The barrel of the gun shivered in his grip, then he lowered it, and Dean was on him.

First, Dean grabbed the kid's gun and slammed it on the counter, wanted it out the way so a stray bullet didn't blow an inconvenient hole in him. Adrenaline, that's what he told himself, but it wasn't that. He didn't know the name of what this was. Because Dean had control of the situation now, didn't have to do what he did next. Did it anyway.

He didn't let up until Shorty was whimpering in pain, ribs caved in from Dean's heavy boots, blood everywhere, his face raw as a butchershop counter. Dean's knuckles dripped blood, and he was no longer able to feel much of anything, whether it had a name or not.

Dean was breathing heavily, had _exerted_ himself. The clerk whimpered, and Dean helped him sit up. _Little fucker, why didn't you just give him the money?_ Supposed to make it look good for the cameras, Dean guessed. Restrained himself from continuing the beating, this time on the clerk, Dean put away his gun. Instead, Dean patted the clerk on the shoulder.

"Where's the security tape?" he asked quietly. The kid pointed to a cupboard under the counter, and Dean ripped out the tape, put it in his pocket. He stood, looked around the store. Must be closing time. The missing hour had caught up with him.

"I'm gonna get some beer now. I'm thirty cents short. Think you can cover it?"

The kid nodded, and Dean laid his bills and coins on the counter next to Shorty's gun, stepped over Shorty and avoided the pool of blood that surrounded Tall. He took the cheapest bottled beer he could find, nodded to the clerk on the way out, didn't think about anything for a long while.

--

The shower felt good, felt so goddamn good, and since it was the first thing to feel good in some time, Dean let it run until the hot water tank gave up the last of its warmth. When it did, he shut off the taps abruptly, hoped the noisy shudder of pipes wouldn't wake Sam.

Opening the mold-streaked glass door, Dean grabbed the towel he'd left on the plastic hook, the bathroom air eddying steam as he moved through it. Glad that he couldn't see his reflection in the gray mirror, Dean flexed his right hand experimentally. His knuckles had stopped bleeding, and he didn't think that he'd actually broken anything. They hurt something awful, though. Should have stuck to the soup cans. Cans of anything were usually good weapons, handy, fucking lethal…and he stopped himself, swallowed with difficulty.

He'd just beaten two kids half to death, no two ways around it.

He stood in the bathroom, scrubbed his hair with the towel, dressed slowly, making sure his bloodsplattered jeans were rolled into a ball for the laundry bag. He taped his right hand, knowing that Sam would ask and he would lie and that would be that. Sam would eventually be so relentless with his _weneedtotalkaboutthis_ look that Dean would probably cave, but he'd made promises and he wasn't so sore and tired that he couldn't carry what his dad had asked him to.

_I'm fine_, he told himself and didn't question it. Sam thought that they should go on and that 'dad would have wanted it', and didn't stop to think of where dad actually was, because you'd drive yourself crazy if you thought of that. It wasn't something that Dean could ignore though, because he was only here on account of where dad now was. But Sam was sleeping and Dean could carry this and that was all that mattered.

His watch now said 3:24, which was the middle of the night in any time zone, and Dean still had four beers in the box.

In the morning, Sam could drive.

--

_William Green Memorial Highway, 2 miles west of Newcomerstown OH, present day_

Sam always mixed up Cy Young and Ty Cobb, used them interchangeably as though they were the same old time player. Sam would try to impress Dean about some modern pitcher winning the Ty Cobb award, obscenely pleased with himself that he remembered it was a pitching award, and Dean would laugh and laugh. _Cy Young_, gentleman pitcher, he'd explain, less than patiently. _Ty Cobb_, Georgia Peach, center fielder, batter from hell, asshole extraordinaire, blahblahblah. Always made Sam want to make his hand do the yakking gesture.

But Sam's baffled density with regards to baseball made Dean laugh and that was more than enough these days.

So Sam thought it was a good sign, maybe, when the so-called highway pulling east into the heart of Ohio offered up a blue tourism sign at its verge, proudly declaring that Newcomerstown was up ahead, Home of Cy Young. Sam slid his glance to the passenger seat, where Dean leaned his head against the window, barely awake, his hands slack in his lap, one bandaged because he'd caught it in a door at the bar.

That was actually the story he'd flown past Sam, sanitized as an afterschool special. Did Dean suddenly think Sam was an imbecile? This morning: six empty bottles, a whole package of gauze and half a roll of medical tape. Sam guessed bar brawl, hoped he was right. He'd noticed that Dean had wanted out of Rockwood almost before dawn and short of a yelling match, Sam wasn't going to get anywhere poking that wound. So he'd accepted Dean's ridiculous story with a grimace and a returned sunny smile. _You drive_, Dean had responded, an admission of sorts.

"Hey Dean," Sam prodded, one hand lifting to the upcoming sign, thinking that he might get his brother to laugh at least. He didn't make it past pointing.

A white shearing light sliced the Impala into a thousand shards of shattered glass, glancing through him as though he was made of warm butter. The smell of sulfur overpowered him, and his stomach roiled unpleasantly. That was all the warning he got.

_In the middle of the opalescent fog, clearing, the brushed honey oak floors of a school gymnasium, the smell of sweat and gunpowder. Vinyl lettering on the floorboards, stupid looking guy in a barrel, the words 'Niagara Falls High School Welcomes You!' circling the familiar mascot like a noose._

_The gunpowder smell registered and there, as though she was standing in front of him, a slight blonde woman, familiar – shit, more than familiar – but so fucking scared. He hadn't seen her in six years, but those years had only pared the smooth skin to the bones underneath, had turned a young teacher into a beauty. He recognized her immediately, though he'd never seen her look like this. She was staring at some point behind him, saying something and he almost heard her low voice, the salty-sweet slide of a southern accent in this northern place. _

_Strained to hear, but everything was suddenly overwhelmed by the crack of a rifle. The boards, so neatly partitioned for volleyball and basketball, were awash in a spray of her blood and she fell into it, blue eyes rolling back and Sam shouted 'no!' in a voice that barely belonged to him._

His head hit something hard and he panicked, flailing out, someone catching his arm and he jerked away, heard the screech of tires against asphalt, then the hot smell of rubber, not sulfur, and Dean's voice right in his ear, "For fuck's sake, Sam!"

Dean was almost in his lap, had his left foot jammed on the brakes, while Sam's right rested on the gas pedal. The car was in neutral on the soft shoulder of the highway next to a farmer's field, roaring its dismay at the abuse. Dean's breath came as though he'd just run a half marathon.

Sam thought maybe his head might explode.

Slowly, Dean extricated himself from his position, swallowed, his eyes wide, considered Sam as though he'd announced he murdered children in their sleep, still had one hand bunched up in Sam's shirtfront. "What the _fuck_, Sammy?" It wasn't a question, really. His eyes were white rimmed, and Sam didn't actually need to be psychic to know what was going on there – a near car crash on an empty highway, the sound of tires screeching across the road, both of them scrambled like so many eggs. Dean seemed to notice his fist in Sam's chest, looked at it, relaxed his hand enough to take it away.

Sam knew he was on the verge of being shaken or hit, that Dean was probably counting under his breath.

"Don't you fucking do that." Low sound, not so low that Sam couldn't hear the anger. "Don't you _ever_ fucking do that again."

Finally, after the few minutes it took for their hearts to return to a place approaching normal, Dean reached out with his left hand, the one that wasn't hamburger meat, and grabbed Sam's chin, turning his head to the side. "You're bleeding."

Obligingly, Sam turned off the car. "So are you." And he pointed to where blood soaked through the bandages on Dean's right hand. He must have made some kind of leap to get the Impala back under control. Sam took a shaky breath. Shit, he might have killed them both. _Fuck_. He jumped out the car, folded both arms against the roof and rested his forehead there, waiting for the panic to pass.

It took a while. After a minute or two, he heard the passenger side door open and Dean got unhurriedly out, the jangle of keys as he opened the trunk, and came around to Sam's side.

"C'mon, I'll drive. It's just a little cut, a teeny tiny Bandaid'll do it. Think there's one in here with Nemo on it." Sam lifted his head just in time to see Dean grin, holding out the horrendously depleted first aid bag.

_The lengths I go to get him to smile_, Sam thought, wondering when this had shifted.

Sam walked stiffly around the car as his brother settled into the driver's seat. Dean didn't start the car until Sam had fixed the small cut, not with a Nemo bandage, but with a miniscule fabric one, tried to re-adjust the rearview mirror back to its original position, but Dean slapped away his hand.

Sam watched him take a deep breath. "So, what'd you see?" Dean asked, but didn't look as though he wanted to know the answer.

_Christ, you're not going to like this, Dean._

"You know, in Greenwood, when we were at the crossroads, and you asked me if I'd save someone going over Niagara in a barrel?"

Dean's mouth worked. In Greenwood, Sam had been shocked when Dean had brought up Niagara Falls, him of all people. They never spoke of it, too much guilt between them. Too much sorrow and anger. Sam was pretty sure that no matter how angry Dean had been at the crossroads – and he'd been plenty mad, all right – he'd known he'd crossed a line, bringing up that.

The day's last light was low in the sky; they'd been driving all day, and Dean hadn't really slept, looked it. This wasn't going to get any easier, though.

"Yeah." He turned, mild belligerence caught in the slanting sun. "I didn't mean anything by it."

Sam shrugged, massaged the knot between his eyes with his fingertips. "Yeah, you did." And Dean let that one lay flat as a carpet. Sam wondered if he felt guilty now, because at the crossroads, Dean had deliberately goaded Sam with it, looking for a fight.

"Well, that's where we're going, so you'll have the chance to make it up to me."

For once, he didn't look at Dean, because his headache was fucking monstrous.

"Really?" Dean sounded uncertain. "Niagara? Back there?"

Sam wondered if he'd have to open the door to puke. He took a long breath and steadied, finally lowered his hand. For first time in weeks, Dean didn't look like he wanted to tear something apart. He was staring at Sam like he was an executioner.

Though his head pounded as he did it, Sam nodded, sure.

"Back there."

--

TBC


	2. Alluvium

**Chapter Two/**Alluvium

**Summary**: "Someone goes over Niagara in a barrel. You gonna jump in and try to save them?" – _Dean Winchester, Crossroad Blues._ Sam's making plans, and they don't include his father or hunting. They might not even include Dean. High school in two time periods.

**Rating: **Gen, PG-13: cussing, bone-crunching, and aaaaaanggggst. WIP, will be 10 chapters.

**Spoilers**: up to and including _Croatoan_. In the _Red_ 'verse, but you can read this without reading that.

**Credit**: Thanking Kripke and co for the generous loan of the Sam and Dean action figures – they really are so much fun to play with! And bendy! Mostly, though, thanks to the betas, jmm0001 and Lemmypie. JM for not letting me get away with emotional shortcuts and for saying, "see, this is what's missing…" Lemmy for being extraordinarily excited about just about every aspect of the research, whether it's time zones, SATs, or geologic formations.

**STF**: Sam's senior year, Niagara Falls High School – Sam's trying hard to fit in, to find his place, but his Dad and Dean aren't making 'normal' an easy proposition, what with hunting a bunch of angry ghosts down by the Falls. In the present day, coming off the revelations of _Crossroad Blues_, Dean is dancing pretty close to a different kind of edge and keeping Sam at arm's length. In the middle of the highway, Sam has a vision about one of his high school teachers. Rather inconveniently, he's the one driving.

--

_Newcomerstown, OH, present day_

No way was Dean going to let Sam behind the wheel again, not after almost running them off the road, not when Sam was pale and sweaty, hands trembling as he affixed the silly little bandage to his eyebrow. Newcomerstown would do for the night. Dean found a cheap motel where he witnessed Sam swallowing a handful of acetaminophen tablets like tictacs before a big date. Fat lot of good it would do him, he thought, anxiety buzzing through him like an electric current.

Some kind of food would help, surely.

The restaurant Sam insisted on was the sort of place Dad would have called a fern bar and that Dean called a granola trough. Whatever you named it, the restaurant had free wireless and that was what sold Sam on it, even if it meant that Dean ended up with cheese and tomato on twelve-grain. He'd coped with worse.

As he ate the sandwich, he watched Sam across the table, the laptop open, glowing on his face, dark outside now, his plate of veggie quesadilla virtually untouched beside him. Sam was concentrating, a fine line between his brows, and Dean remembered a hundred dinners with Sam reading at the table, scowling. Totally oblivious to what was going on around him.

Again, the anxiety flared like a bad shoulder when it rained. _Sam is just Sam_, Dean told himself. _He's okay. We're going to be okay, if I can just hold it together, if we just keep moving..._

"Find anything?" and that came out wrong, a bark from a dog trapped in a parked car. Since the near-crash outside of town, Sam hadn't expanded on the two words 'Niagara Falls'. Dean was fairly sure he didn't want any illumination on the subject, but just as sure he couldn't avoid it.

Sam didn't reply, not immediately. Over the years, how many times had Dean studied his little brother's face, wondering what made him tick, never figuring it out?

"Well, at least eat something," Dean mumbled, knowing that Sam wasn't listening. Almost like being on his own again, when Sam got on the computer. Under the table, he nudged him with the toe of his boot. "I'm talking to you."

Sam didn't even look up, and his mouth fell open a little. Made him look witless, Dean thought. "Holy shit," Sam whispered, glancing up at Dean, horrified.

Annoyed now, Dean reached out for the laptop, but Sam slid it out of his reach. "Wait," he instructed and Dean leaned back into the bench seat, knowing that Sam went to these cold places of intellect and research, its own kind of hunt, solitary and disciplined.

_God, I'm bored_.

Shit, if it wasn't for Sam's freaky visions and the occasional botched convenience store holdup, he'd be catatonic. Long hours of boredom punctuated by sheer terror, that was how he'd once heard the lives of fighter pilots described. It was a lie; he wasn't bored as much as lonely, but he wasn't going to admit to that.

Finally, in his own sweet time, Sam closed the lid of the laptop and grimaced, finding his food. His eyes met Dean's. "What do you remember about the Falls?"

_Oh, christ, yeah, Sam, let's talk about that._

"Big. Lots of water." Smiled tightly. "Some tacky tourist places."

Sam tilted his head to one side, asking Dean to be serious. "You remember anything about a demon?"

Forcing Dean to look away, of course, talking about the Falls and demons. "Dad thought there was one." _Don't be a chicken_, he counseled himself. He looked back, found Sam exactly the same, alarmingly solid and attentive. "But he _always_ thought there was a demon, didn't he?"

Something in his voice made Sam wince, but Dean didn't care.

"Well, if I'm having a vision about Niagara Falls, then I think we can be sure there's a demon involved."

"Wasn't a fucking demon, Sam. Ghosts, and lots of them. You know that," he said hotly, capable of his own stare. "You _know_ that."

Sam sighed and was the first to look away. He gestured with one hand to the laptop. "I saw one of my old teachers get a bullet to the head in the middle of the school gym," he explained baldly. "My old high school."

_Fuck_. "What did your high school have to do with the ghosts?" Only everything, but Dean wasn't going to say it. On the surface, what had happened in Niagara Falls those years ago had to do with ghosts and obsessions and nothing to do with leaving and being left.

_Only everything_.

Sam wasn't buying it either, but seemed to notice that Dean was getting angry. "I saw what I saw, Dean. And these visions always have to do with a demon, maybe our demon, and it was her, it was Ms. Simon. No ghosts or even the Falls. The school gym."

Dean wished the waitress would come by and offer them something, anything, to break the intensity of Sam's stare. She was occupied at another table, though, not meeting Dean's bleak come-here glance. "Sure it was the Niagara Falls gym? She might have moved schools."

_C'mon, wasn't such a stupid idea, Sam_, but Sam was already shaking his head in that way he'd had since they were kids. Dean wasn't keeping up with him; Sam had already lapped him on the track, had come up behind him, was now way out in front.

Over his head, Dean was in over his head and he hated it. But this was what he'd been dealt, this was what Dad had dumped on his lap, and now he found he couldn't even look at Sam. _I am going to fuck this up; I'm going to fuck_ him _up_. He pushed away his sandwich plate, suddenly breathless with anger.

"Nope, she's still listed on the school web site. And I found an article in the local paper from last year. Her four-year-old daughter died in a car crash, husband driving." Sam's expression changed, but Dean couldn't quite pin what he noticed there. "She had that baby my senior year," Sam continued, and he looked away too fast.

More going on here than Dean remembered. Than Dean wanted to remember. "So, what? You were hot for her? This a hot teacher we're talking about, Sammy?" That was deliberately poking a sleeping tiger, and Dean was even aware he was doing it, wanting Sam to get pissed off because it was familiar, and it was a reaction and it wasn't being _alone_.

Sam's face screwed up. "You are such a fucking jerk," he said softly, and it was true.

--

_Niagara Falls NY, 2000_

"What's the best scholarship offer you've got so far?" Ms. Simon asked, not looking at the stacks of papers on her desk. Her attention was all on Sam, which unnerved him more than he liked to admit, this _being_ _seen_.

Early October already and this was the first guidance appointment Sam had been able to keep between ghost hunting and catching up with missed homework. He had been dreading it – thinking about the future, whatever that was, and being alone with her in a small room where he'd have to make conversation. Bad enough that he had Ms. Simon for Novels 12, where he sat at the back of the class and never said a word. But here? Alone in her office? _Shit_.

Sam tried to read her papers upside down, realized that they were some kind of standardized test scores, the NY State Education Department's logo on one corner, the date sometime in the late 90s, maybe '98, which would make sense. They'd spent four months in Syracuse back then. Sam didn't remember taking any tests, but that had been a particularly rough year.

"Pardon me?" Not exactly eloquent, or displaying any exceptional intelligence, but Sam was having a hard time concentrating for a number of reasons, not the least of which was a new cut on upper arm, deep and badly sewn by an irate Dad late last night. Not enough sleep, of course, because of the arm and the idiocy leading up to the injury. Mr. Isbister's geography quiz next period, which he hadn't studied for because of all the other crap.

Then there was the fact that Ms. Simon had long blonde hair and bow-curving lips and eyes blue as Minnesota skies mid-winter. The fact that she could talk about Dostoevsky and the Beat Poets and F. Scott Fitzgerald, and at the same time knew about the new PlayStation 2 coming out and rumors about Xbox.

Ms. Simon smiled widely, pointed to the papers, perhaps realizing that Sam was having a tough time focusing on what she was saying, which only made him feel like more of a freak. He hoped she didn't notice the ridiculous shade of red he'd gone to. She turned the marking schematics around so Sam could see. A series of red points dotted the very right hand side of a bell curve.

"The state-wides say you're in the top 2 percent." She tapped the red dots, Sam still not following. Her accent was Georgia-soft, made Sam think of pecan stands at the side of back highways. "You never knew? Hell, you can have your pick of colleges, if you play your cards right this year."

He liked that she said 'hell', which wasn't very southern genteel. Sam thought about lying, fabricating something about UB or Buff State, something along those lines, wondered if she'd back off. Ms. Simon didn't seem the backing-off type, though.

Ms. Simon was probably no older than Dean.

"What?" Continuing the witty banter. Below the lip of her desk, Sam's fingers played a ferocious drum solo on his jumping knee.

She shrugged, shook her head a little, wavy gold hair tied back in a ponytail, no makeup, just those huge eyes. On him like laser beams. "College? You must have thought about it."

No, actually, he hadn't. College meant staying in one place for more than a couple of months. They'd never done that, and John wasn't in the habit of putting down roots, not anywhere. Sam didn't think anyone in his family had graduated from high school, let alone college; this spring he'd be the first, if he could string together an acceptable set of courses.

"Not really," he admitted, not wanting to lie to her. Why? Why should he lie? Who would it benefit? John Winchester, whose only advice in terms of school was 'keep your head low'? Sam looked out the window at the early October sunshine. Glanced back, because she was prettier than any turning leaves. "I haven't thought about it, like, at _all_."

She turned the exams over as though they were pancakes, done. "Would you _like_ to think about it?"

True. A true question, aimed like a lance, straight at him.

"I don't know." But suddenly, he _did_ know, knew exactly what he wanted to do.

This felt more dangerous than what they'd faced last night on Goat Island, the Niagara River rushing around them to its famous precipice, ghosts as angry and as needful as anything Sam had ever faced, Dad utterly surprised, not anticipating their call: _Over, over, over. _And,_ glory, oh glory._

_Get Sam outta here!_ Dad had shouted. And then the slip and the fall and the sharp stones and Sam's arm taking the brunt of it and Dean's shoulder under him, Dad swearing at his youngest son, dragging him from the State Park past midnight, bleeding to no good end.

Blood was okay when there was a point to it. This, however, had been sloppy and stupid and had accomplished nothing.

"You think about it," Ms. Simon said softly, and she had nothing to do with ghosts and bleeding and the past. She shook her head gently. "You have gifts, Sam. I mean it. You have it in you. You should sit your SATs and let those college recruiters beat a path to your door." She paused as Sam stood, their time running down towards the second period of the afternoon, to Isbister's test. He picked up his knapsack and was halfway out the door before she stopped him. "I know what it's like," she called softly after him.

He turned, sudden fright thrilling through him like quickly swallowed whiskey, followed immediately by anger. What did anyone know about his life, about _what it's like?_

She held his stare and he admired her for that; most people looked away. "It's not what people expect from you. Doesn't mean you can't make it happen."

The anger slipped away as suddenly as it had come; he nodded to her, not knowing exactly what he meant by it.

--

_Newcomerstown OH, present day_

The acetaminophen wasn't helping, not with this.

Even though having a vision while he was driving wasn't exactly good for Sam's nerves – let alone what that vision had shown him – it wasn't Ms. Simon he looked up first when he opened the laptop in the health food restaurant. Instead, he searched the local papers for that stretch of Tennessee highway between Crossville and Rockwood, because Dean's hand hadn't gotten smashed in any fucking door.

Dean was losing his shit right in front of Sam and everything was _all right_, was _just fine_, was _perfectly okay_.

A quick glance at the online edition of the _Crossville Chronicle_ made Sam ignore the quesadilla, made him ignore Dean's peevish attention-seeking jabs across the table.

"Holy shit," Sam breathed, reading about last night's violent holdup at an Ozone Tennessee Friendly Mart. Two local kids hospitalized, one with injuries listed as 'serious', the day's take given up to a single robber with a handgun and a vintage black car, Kansas plates. 'Great car,' Duane Reilly, counter clerk uninjured in the holdup was quoted. 'But the robber was a real professional, hit Cameron and Jason like they were nothing, then took the surveillance tape.'

Six foot one, late twenties, short sandy hair and a killer's stone cold approach.

Goddamn strangers in our small town, the subtext clearly stated. Obvious to Sam that the kids had all been in on it, because Dean might be tailspinning, but he wasn't moonlighting as a holdup man.

That night, Sam insisted that Dean stay put, and together they watched a basketball game on satellite from the west coast until Dean fell asleep on the bed, fully dressed. Once Sam was sure Dean was completely dead to the world, he went through his duffle bag under the harsh light in the bathroom, not entirely sure what he was looking for: a stack of convenience store bills, a ski mask. _Blood_. Sam found an unmarked VHS tape under a pair of jeans stiff with dried blood. He put everything back exactly as he'd found it, unsure what to do with this evidence.

Suggest a laundry stop tomorrow, maybe, wash away the blood. Throw the tape into a rest stop garbage bin.

He wondered what he'd see if he watched the tape. Dean beating two kids until they were bloody and unconscious, barely a scratch on him, all his rage vented on strangers. If it _was_ vented, that was actually good, better than turning it inwards, Sam supposed. Over the last few months, ever since the car crash and Dad dying…_how_ Dad had died, the price he'd been willing to pay, what the demon at the crossroads had told Dean. _If you knew where he really was_…shit. Venting might not be the worst thing in the world, if that's what it was.

Sam zipped up the duffle bag, set it silently beside the TV and looked at Dean, washed by the TV's blue light, scowling even in his sleep, injured hand slack across his chest. Sam wasn't forgiving anything, didn't know if there was anything to forgive, but he'd drag Dean over this rough spot if it was the last thing he did.

--

_Niagara Falls NY, 2000_

Isbister's exam was a breeze, no point in studying for it after all. Sam had been asked a bunch of stuff that any idiot with two brain cells ought to be able to answer coherently: shit, just look at the etymology of the word _alluvium_. Know a few words of Latin and you're practically there. An educated guess was as good as knowing for damn sure, nine times out of ten.

Aced the test without even thinking about it, _because he was good at this sort of thing_.

His All-Stars were getting wet, hoofing the long arm of the isosceles across the empty football field, bypassing the clusters of students hanging around the side of the school, Sam not wanting to avoid so much as to escape. Stupid cliques of jocks and stoners and grease monkeys and Goths. Leftover geeks too socially inept to glom onto band or theater or even the computer club.

He was none of these things. He was something else.

_Top two percent_, he thought with a thin smile, almost unable to identify the feeling that had come over him. Pride, maybe, a goofy pride that had nothing to do with killing anything supernatural. And Ms. Simon had been the one to point it out. _Fuck_, he whispered under his breath, shaking his head. No, he'd had no idea.

Or some, really, but just thought that things like grades came easy to him, especially compared to Dean. Sure, his brother was fast and strong and had an insane knack for hitting things exactly where they didn't want to get hit. Ask him to sit still and read a Russian novel, though, or explain the difference between sine, cosine and tangent, or make the connection between turbulence in water and that in air? No way. But Sam could do it without breaking stride, without even thinking about what he was doing.

He _liked_ it.

His grin was huge and he knew he probably looked like a crazy person, but he didn't really care and no one was close enough to notice anyway. Ms. Simon knew he was smart. She'd noticed his aptitude, his brains, his abilities. Him. She'd noticed _him_. And once he got used to this spotlight, it might not be so bad.

But he shut thoughts of Ms. Simon away, because that would get him nowhere, worse than nowhere. What hunter needed a college degree? His smile faded. He trailed his fingers along the chain link fence, then crossed a parking lot to the residential area, ducked down a back alley that ran parallel to the main street. Rain started, just light splats, inquisitive. He was cold.

Last night it had been fucking freezing and those ghosts hadn't made anything warmer. Dozens of them, gossamer as the dead often were, but vociferous for all that. Present in a way that scared Sam at an elemental level, moving with purpose, appearing and disappearing, impervious to salt blasts. Dad had said he and Dean would go back this afternoon, check out the patterns they'd seen last night, see if there was any correlation with the physical geography of the islands separating the American Falls from the Horseshoe Falls.

_Alluvium_, Sam thought humorlessly. Carried along in the river's flow to be deposited wherever the flood took them.

Two blocks away from the school, in back of a Taco Bell, and there were the basketball jocks, or the football squad, or whatever the hell they were, with their letterman jackets and varsity letters and their asshole credentials stitched on large enough to spot a hundred yards away. Probably all destined for college. A different kind of student with a different kind of scholarship, 'going to college' meaning parties and getting laid and Saturday night lights. Something totally different than for... _Than for whom? You, Samuel Winchester? You're not college material, are you?_

They were beating someone up, someone too short for Sam to see, which was good enough reason to get involved as far as Sam was concerned. The tone of easy and unearned superiority set his teeth on edge, caused a flare of righteous anger to flow through him, replacing giddy pride and pipe dreams between one second and the next.

"Hey!" he shouted, taking his hands out the pockets of his worn plaid coat, flexing them slightly. Warming up. The new stitches on his shoulder complained, but they were instantly relegated to the _things that didn't currently matter_ column. "Hey!" Sam repeated, coming up behind them, mindful of his height and his own familiarity with casual violence.

They turned en masse, and Sam recognized the dumpy figure of the newt-like boy, curly hair, baggy clothes, full moon glasses. Blood on the lips from where his teeth had cut. The varsity boys backed off a little, but not enough.

"None of your business," one of them said. Dean would have agreed. Dad would have agreed.

_I'm not them._

Sam folded his arms across his chest, stared impassively. They would have no way of knowing that this was a stare borrowed from his brother that fit him like a too-big suit. "Move on," he suggested, not sparing a glance to the tubby kid. Sat in the front in Novels 12, Sam recalled. Todd Christiansen. _Toad_.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" a huge pudding-faced linebacker asked, and Sam didn't recognize him. It was a good question, actually.

He thought of a half dozen lazy retorts to that, none of which were likely to de-escalate the situation. He wasn't looking for a fight, so he didn't say anything, just inserted his tall body between Toad and his nearest tormentor, turned obliquely to shield him and to increase the distance between the varsity boys and their quarry.

Despite the fact that there were five of them and they were athletes, they had no idea what a disadvantage he had them at. Five to one weren't good odds, true, but Sam was mad now. Only once in a great while did anything to do with his family fall in Sam's favor in the real world, but a straight out brawl with no incantations, supernatural powers, or blood rituals required? Child's play.

He _felt_ the nearest boy move towards him before he saw it. Without stepping away from his protective stance, Sam caught the oncoming fist in one hand, twisted it like a ball in a socket, then slid his hard broad hand so he gripped the boy's wrist. Continued to twist clockwise, and the boy was forced to pivot into Sam, his arm now caught behind his back, excruciating.

Sam knew how painful it was because he'd been on the receiving end of this move more than once, breathless laughter in his ear_. Gotcha, Sammy._ If this kid knew what he was doing, he'd back into Sam's instep, hard, with his heel.

The kid had no idea how to get himself out of it. All offense, no defense. _Idiot_.

"Move on," Sam repeated quietly. After a long minute, the four other boys backed away.

When Sam reckoned they had really backed down, weren't looking to regroup, he shoved the boy in his grip away from him, hard enough that he stumbled and almost went down. Recovering, the varsity boy rubbed his wrist and threw an angry glance at Sam before turning and running after his teammates, who were already walking away, laughing about what a fucking waste of time it all was.

Sam stood unmoving, both anger and pride flowing from him. He felt hollow, like a wind instrument, as though the wind would make him whistle if he faced it at the right angle. Because none of it mattered, really. Top two percent, or making bullies pay. Who the fuck did he think he was?

He was still looking in from the outside, marked by tragedy and evil, whatever any test scores made a pretty teacher see in him.

Only then did Sam look at Toad. The smaller boy was trying to smile, which just made Sam feel worse. "Thanks," Toad spluttered through the blood. The lip was cut badly; it would need three or four stitches. Again, anger, because you had to get hit pretty hard for your tooth to go right through. Assholes. And Toad was _smiling_. "My mom is going to be so pissed. Another ER visit."

"C'mon," Sam prompted, not wanting the varsity team to suddenly realize that they were five to Sam's single digit. Toad shuffled along willingly, holding one hand to his mouth, blood seeping through his fingers and dripping down his green t-shirt. Sam glanced back to make sure he was following.

"She worries too much about me," Toad burbled through the blood. As well she should, Sam thought. "I think the ER docs think that she beats me up or something."

"I can sew that up." Save him a long emergency room wait with a worried mother, or worse yet, a call from Social Services.

Toad was eager to please. He probably thought that Sam _wanted_ to perform surgery on Toad fucking Christiansen, because dammit if he wasn't nodding enthusiastically.

Dad would _freak_. And the smile was back on Sam's face.

--

_Niagara Falls NY, present day_

Billy Shuter thought she looked like a retard with that bandana round her head. Who did she think she was? A nun, covering up her hair so teenage boys didn't get all horny with thinking about it? Why didn't she fucking cut it, then?

While Ms. Simon reached down into the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet – Billy was used to having a surname that came towards the end of the alphabet, end of the row, bottom drawer – his eyes were once again drawn to a small framed photograph on the bookshelf right next to the Careers 2006 binder and a series of board-issued booklets on bullying and drug use.

Little girl with a halo of blond hair, smiling. God, how maudlin. She should probably take it down, but that would be too much to hope for. Ms. Simon was all about 'honoring our past' and 'witnessing adversity' and blahblahblah. Billy adjusted his position on the seat, pulling at a waistband of jeans he wore deliberately tight. His black Marilyn Mason shirt was a ruse; he couldn't have named any of his songs. Fuck it, but she'd found the file and was now shaking her head gently.

Sorry for me?

"You know, Billy, you test high," and her attention was on the papers, maybe she didn't want to look at him. Billy smiled brightly. "Not that test scores are everything. But why do you want to change your electives to shop and woodworking? You don't really…" She looked up then. "You don't really display an aptitude for it."

"I hate my teachers." Watched to see what she'd do with that.

And heard, distinctly, like she'd breathed it in his ear with that silly dumbass Southern accent: _I'm so tired of this. I'm not getting anywhere with him_.

"I hate all of them." Kept his stare directly on her.

Ms. Simon shrugged. "A lot of them have quit in the last month or two," she tried. Billy supposed it must be a lot of work to switch his course load this late in the term, partly why he was trying to do it. "We're trying to get replacements. No need…"

_No need to make it hard on yourself_, Billy heard from her.

He shrugged, thought about picking his nose just to hear her reaction. "I fucking hate those grease monkeys in the shop," he said instead, pushed a strand of uncut unwashed uncombed blond hair behind his ear. "Bunch of assholes. Not much better in Novels, though is it. Ma'am."

She hated being called ma'am, made her feel old. Pushing thirty and she _was_ old, Billy thought.

"I think the Novels class is going pretty well, Billy, if only you'd…" she stopped herself from a lecture. "We should have the replacements hired this week or next. No need to make a dramatic switch, especially when shop doesn't interest you." _What does interest you, Billy? Anything? Anything at all?_ "Law and Justice is a good course for you." _You'll probably need it._

And Billy smirked. Ms. Simon blinked, not knowing what to make of him. He sat up, pulled at the chain he wore around his neck, a dog's choke collar. Had driven Daphne wild when he'd come home with that, though Dad had smiled indulgently. He hadn't needed to say a word to start the argument between them. The collar didn't bother Ms. Simon, but other things did.

"My sister's birthday today. She's turning six. Looks a lot like that," and gestured to the photo on the shelf, not looking at Ms. Simon, not needing to. "Can I go?" Back at her fast, his eyes narrowing, seeing the blood drain from her face. Stupid bitch, keeping that photo there. Asking for it.

It wasn't his sister's birthday; he never fucking remembered when that was.

"I'll stick out Law." He picked up his knapsack, shouldered it. "I'll probably need it, right?" Her phone rang then, and he left her office, knowing Ms. Simon was grateful for his leaving and angry with herself for being so.

--

_Five miles east of Buffalo NY, present day_

Lake Erie was gray and flat and looked as though it would swallow ocean liners whole, that it was home to sea monsters and ghost ships. Even though you couldn't see the other side, it didn't feel like an ocean, didn't feel like standing on the edge of the world.

_Interlacustrine_, Sam thought, dredging up Geography 12 terminology like fish on a line.

Dean drove, his general uncommunicativeness disguised by a series of cassette tapes pushed into the deck one after the other, no break whatsoever, Sam studying the gray and buff grass that flashed by, monotonous, every once in a while glancing to his brother, looking for an in, an opportunity, get him talking. But Dean was a powder keg on the next seat, taking no joy from the music, driving mostly one-handed, bandaged fist stiff on his lap.

They stopped for lunch just short of Buffalo, and the air felt like snow. Sam had forgotten the wind, had forgotten that he needed a coat more substantial than the one he had. Dean said he wasn't hungry, but Sam insisted, more for Dean than for himself, made sure Dean was sitting in front of a burger and fries before he excused himself – not that Dean seemed to notice – and went to the back of the diner, stopping in the corridor connecting the restaurant to the gas bar.

He'd written the school's number on a slip of last night's napkin, recycled brown. She answered on the second ring.

"Elise Simon," she said, at least a few beats slower than anyone else in this part of the country, pulled out the vowels like salt taffy on a hot day at the beach.

"Um, Ms. Simon," Sam stammered, looking around, illogically alarmed that Dean might come looking for him. "This is Sam Winchester. I don't know if you'll…"

"Sam Winchester!" she repeated and he heard a note of awe and sorrow and something like joy. "Oh my god, _Sam_. Where the hell are you?"

It hurt, he was smiling so hard.

"In Buffalo, just-"

"So you're coming to visit, I hope?" Direct, he'd forgotten that too.

"Yeah, if you don't mind." He faltered. "I..." What? I saw you getting shot in the head? That would go over well. "I just heard about Chloe. I'm sorry. I didn't know."

A small pause, a small sigh. "Well, yeah. A tragedy. I manage." He knew what she'd say next. "And you? What have you been up to?"

No lies, but he'd rather talk face to face. "It's been a pretty hard year for me, too, actually. Lost a few people." A small pause, a small sigh. His own tragedies. "My girlfriend. My dad."

"Oh, Sam, I'm sorry." She had no reason to be sorry, not when it came to John Winchester, and Sam remembered that. She _was_ sorry, though, if only for Sam, which was enough.

He fiddled with the corner of a poster stapled to the wall next to the washroom sign. "I was at Stanford, but I'm taking some time off right now, driving around the country, working things out."

"Good, that's good, Sam. If anyone was meant for academics, you are." She laughed, but it didn't sound the same as before, held steady to an edge of darkness. He said nothing to contradict her, which wasn't quite the same thing as lying.

He made arrangements to meet her the next day. He still had no idea what to say to her about his vision, but he'd think of something. He clicked the phone shut, leaned against the wall, wished he didn't feel quite so much like they were on the run.

They were, or at least Dean was, and Sam wanted to scream at him, or hit him, or just have him smarten up, because worrying about Dean felt unnatural. It went against the order of things, and Sam recognized that he was being childish, that he shouldn't wish for Dean to take care of everything.

Not anymore. Dean had slowly shared that responsibility over the last year, most particularly on a Washington State mountainside, and Sam didn't want any backsliding. But this, what had happened since Dad died, this wasn't even a _return_. This was something else altogether, was Dean going dark, blackout curtains up, no light leaking through, as though bombers were overhead. Might keep them safe, but it was lonely, too.

For Sam as much as anybody.

He came back to the table and Dean stared hard at him, remote. "What'd she say?" And he might care about Sam's answer and he might not, but Sam couldn't tell.

--

_Niagara Falls NY, 2000_

Sam knew that Dad wasn't home to freak out: it was the only reason he'd invited Toad back. Dad and Dean were hunting ghosts on Goat Island, wouldn't be back until dinnertime, at least. So Sam could do as he damn well pleased.

He settled Toad at the kitchen table, then went to get the substantial first aid kit, bigger than a serious fisherman's tackle box. It banged against the Formica tabletop, and Sam unsnapped the clasps holding the lid shut. He silently sorted through antiseptics and bandages until he found the cache of sterilized needles. He straightened, pulled a vinyl-upholstered kitchen chair so he faced Toad and smiled grimly.

"I'm Sam Winchester."

Toad blinked. "I know that. You're the new kid," like that was something to be desired, that 'new kid' was the same as 'blank slate'. Same as 'start over'. "I'm Toad." Sam saw the swallow he took. "Everyone calls me that." He eyed the kit. "Do you know what you're doing?" That was the first trepidation Sam had heard from him. Admirable, in a strange way.

He shrugged. Another fucking aberrant skill learned too young: minor surgery. "Yeah. It'll sting, though." A bottle of Dad's Jose Cuervo sat beside the stove, a lingering memory from last night. That was Dad, though. Ice might do Toad better. He went to the freezer, torqued the plastic tray and wrapped two ice cubes in a clean washcloth. He told Toad to hold it to his bleeding lip while he prepped the suture kit. Once satisfied, Sam set to work.

To his credit, Toad didn't make a sound.

Not until the bellow at the door announced that Dad was home, and not in a particularly hospitable mood. Sam jumped, genuinely alarmed. Toad did him one better and swore, a magnificent, heart-felt _goddamn, what the hell is that?_ The door – which was hardly a deterrent to entry in the first place – cracked open under the combined weight of Dad holding up Dean, who was gasping in pain, barely keeping his feet.

_Oh my god_, Sam thought. _Oh my god, why is my family such a bunch of freaks?_ First of all this decrepit apartment with tequila more abundant than milk, a first aid kit better than the average hospital's, and now…_this_?

_This_ was actually fairly dramatic, even by Winchester standards.

Dean was covered in blood, literally dripping with it, a long trail swirling around the doorway like he was a big slug smearing a slime trail behind him. Anyone looking at them would immediately conclude that Dean had been eviscerated. It didn't help that he was wearing a white t-shirt, or a t-shirt that had been white when Sam had last seen him this morning.

It also didn't help that as Dad adjusted his grip under his shoulder, Dean roared in incontrovertible agony. Oh, and god, yeah, the angle of his left wrist might explain the shouting. That wasn't good. Seeing that – _registering_ that – Sam leapt to his feet, the needle and silk thread dangling from Toad's lower lip like a Goth Christmas decoration, and helped his father deposit Dean on the couch.

"Not as bad as it looks," John said sharply, maybe noticing how Sam's mouth was about to do its thing.

"Well, it _looks_ fucking awful," Sam retorted, not in the frame of mind to edit. John did that for him, a quick swipe to the back of his head with an open hand.

"Mind your mouth," he growled, enough gravel in it that Sam took ill-tempered heed. "Get the kit," and looked up, finally seeing Toad as more than a lump in the chair. "Who the hell is this?"

"Friend from school," Sam explained. _Shit_, he thought, all his blood rushing to his face, understanding the scene before him with an outsider's keen eye. _Oh shit, Dad just don't…_Sam knew what his father could be like, how odd and unpleasant. _Please, just don't start talking about anything…weird_.

Sam wasn't moving fast enough, and John had already turned away, getting up to fetch the first aid box from the table himself while Dean writhed silently, clutching his wrist to his chest, eyes closed, face painted with steaks of blood from a cut on his head.

Not eviscerated, after all. The blood had all come from that cut.

Scalp wounds always bled like a sonofabitch, Sam knew, automatically reaching out with the heel of his hand to apply pressure to the wound. It didn't actually alleviate his alarm, though, understanding where the blood was coming from. Sam glanced at Toad; he sat very still, lip quivering, the dangling needle flashing light from the inadequate overhead lamp.

"Fucking…_things_," John swore as he rummaged around for the thick sterilized gauze, needing it to staunch the steady flow of blood. "Not just at night these ones. Daytime fucking…more to it than even McGreevy thought…" He sniped a glance at Toad. "What's your name, son?" he asked, surprising Sam.

"Todd Christiansen," Toad replied.

"Todd, we were down by the Falls and Sam's brother _fell_," and his eyes met Sam's. _Don't you say anything to contradict me, boy. _"Broke his wrist. I'm going to set it and sew up this cut on his head. He'll be just fine. I see that Sammy's been playing doctor with you. Are you done?"

_Get him the hell out of here_, the next look said, not caring in the slightest why his younger son might be sewing up the lip of a school friend at the kitchen table. The very fact he asked no questions pointed out how strange he was, how strange they all were. Sam's face was _on fire_.

Toad nodded, the needle swinging.

Dean gasped suddenly, pulled away from John's probing hands, scrambling up the side of the couch as though he'd seen…well, Sam wasn't sure what thing would make Dean recoil like that. _Now fucking what?_

"Don't listen to them!" Dean shouted hoarsely at thin air, and Sam heard an uncharacteristic break in Dean's voice. Fuck, this was just going _beyond_ weird, well into surreal.

"I think maybe…" Toad started, but didn't get very far with it, because at that moment Dean launched himself off the back of the couch, an actual spray of blood following his trajectory, landing heavily by Sam's feet, still trying to get out of some invisible assailant's way. Sam looked down at him, immobile, silently begging Dean to just _stop it._

No such luck. "I'm not going over! _I'm not doing it._ You guys are dead! You're just shitty asshole ghosts! I'm not fucking _doing_ it!" Dean's eyes were a crazy glazed way that usually only happened when he'd really overdone it at the bar, or once when he'd done some peyote last summer in Arizona and Sam had had to drive him home from police custody so that Dad wouldn't find out.

This wasn't drug related, though. That would have been easier to explain, actually. Dean was shouting about ghosts in a voice that would soon bring the landlord, maybe the police.

John knew it too. He raced over to Dean's side and hit him in precisely the place to make him go ragdoll limp. An appalled silence fell over the shabby apartment, only punctuated by a weird rasping noise. Toad, probably having an asthma attack.

There was now, of course, the added spectacle of Dad clubbing Dean into unconsciousness to complete Sam's mortification. In silence he reached down to his brother on the floor, his hand again finding the wound and pressing the edges back together. Whatever else, no good would come of letting Dean bleed out.

The long moment was broken by John gently easing Dean into his arms and, together with Sam, staggering back with him to the couch, where John began the process of stopping the flow of blood. What was a concussion on top of that, after all?

"Mind passing me the tequila?" John commanded of Toad, pointing to the bottle by the stove.

The boy nodded and got the bottle, perhaps justifiably afraid that John might become violent. Amend that: _more_ violent. John took a long swig, sighed, passed it back to Toad, gestured to him that he could take a hit if he was so inclined. Toad stood mute and Sam wished for a hole to open up in the floor to swallow him or them, or some combination thereof.

He was awed by John's quick reaction, and angry for it. _Yeah, better shut Dean up, cause he's loud_. A natural extension of the hand coming into the Impala's backseat during a fraternal scrap when they were younger. _You're such a psychopath, Dad_.

But John's whole demeanor had changed with the silence, had fallen into a collapsed heap, as though a pile of sand dumped from the back of a truck had just settled into where it was supposed to be, spent. His dad looked old, in that awful light, with his eldest son's blood drying on his clothes. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and asked for the bottle back, set it on the coffee table next to the first aid box.

When he spoke, it was slowly, almost to himself. If he was offering an explanation to Sam, it was a piss poor one. "Almost like he was showing off, you know? Balanced there, on the railing, thank christ there weren't any people around this time of year. One minute there, next, sliding down the slag heap, landed not one yard from the river's edge."

His voice was rock solid, but Sam saw him look at the tequila bottle, weighing out the need for a steady hand with the need to wipe away the image of Dean falling. At least three days from his last shave, in this apartment that smelled of transient sweat and tequila and Toad still there, pale, accepting and shivering all at the same time.

"You should get going home, son," because he hadn't retained who the fuck this kid was.

Toad nodded, and Sam told him to wait. Wiping the last of Dean's blood from his hands with a kitchen towel, Sam reached into the top tray of the first aid kit, withdrew the surgical scissors and snipped the needle from Toad's lip. His hand shook a little, from fear or anger or sheer embarrassment, he wasn't sure.

"That'll do you," Sam said quietly, knowing with a sinking feeling that this was as normal as he was ever going to get, was just his life, over and over. "I'll walk you out."

Sam did better than that; he made sure Toad got all the way home. After, he went to the library. Only when the library closed did he go back to the apartment to find the blood trail in the hallway mopped up, Dean asleep on the sofa with his left wrist bound in a metal splint and a bandage taped to his hairline, a litter of bloody gauze pads scattered around the couch. John sat in the deep springless armchair, staring at the grainy television, the bottle empty by his side, dark eyes swimming with something that Sam didn't care to name.

Wordlessly, Sam retreated to his bedroom, shut the door and lay on the narrow bed, thinking about blood and things calling to you and jumping into unknown waters.

--

TBC


	3. Economic Geography

**Chapter Three/**Economic Geography

**Summary**: "Someone goes over Niagara in a barrel. You gonna jump in and try to save them?" – _Dean Winchester, Crossroad Blues._ Sam's making plans, and they don't include his father or hunting. They might not even include Dean. High school in two time periods.

**Rating: **Gen, PG-13: all fucking manner of swearing. WIP, will be 10 chapters. Horror/drama

**Spoilers**: present-day action takes place between _Crossroad Blues_ up to _Croatoan_. Some references this chapter to events in another fic, _Red_, but all you really need to know is that Dean left high school to earn money and it didn't work out all that well.

**Abasements**: Kripke, Kripke, he's our man, if he can't write them, no one can! Well, er, yeah. Except us ficcers, I guess. I generally bow to the betas; without them, I'm nothing. Or merely long-winded and annoying. Jmm0001 and Lemmypie rock the known world.

**Note to fanfic readers**: My alerts and messages and comments have been a little…well, a little inconsistent over the last week or so. My apologies if I haven't responded to a comment; I really am a little muddled as to what I've responded to and what I haven't.

**STF**: Sam's senior year, Niagara Falls High School – Sam's considering his post-graduation options with the help of a sympathetic teacher. Due to an increasing number of obstreperous and deadly daredevil ghosts, the hunting profession is not coming across as particularly appealing to Sam. In the present day, coming off the revelations of _Crossroad Blues_, Dean is dealing with his father's sacrifice by retreating from Sam and violently lashing out at complete strangers. Sam's worried but has other distractions: his vision of his old teacher being murdered draws the brothers back to Niagara Falls, the scene of heartbreak years before.

--

_Niagara Falls High School, October 2000_

Not that Sam paid much attention, but the Halloween dance was coming up fast. He passed a poster taped haphazardly to the stairwell door, saw you needed five dollars and a costume to get in. The idea of himself in a ghost outfit, or a vampire cape, or even a zombie mask stopped him cold. Not to mention having to identify a girl willing to go with him. He'd rather gouge his eyes out with the blunt end of a wooden stake than subject himself to Dean's ridicule. A costume, him. Try explaining _that_ to Dad.

"You going?" he heard behind him, and Sam didn't turn because no one could possibly be asking him about his plans. Students brushed past him, chatter loud, smell of stale sweat and books and the occasional waft of shampoo or perfume. School smell, pungent, rich. Then, can-opener sharp, "Sam?"

Toad pushed between tall Sam and the poster, herding his glasses up his nose, lightly sweating from two flights of stairs. Novels 12 next, still one flight to go. Without saying a word, Sam shifted the heavy pack on his back and started up the stairs, not looking back. Toad followed by his side. "No point," Sam finally replied, angling to the side as a squadron of blondes snapped down the stairs, heels and gum clicking.

"Me neither," Toad asserted, and Sam flicked a glance to him. Round. Hair and eyes and glasses and worldview. Round and full and woefully uninformed, unguarded. Was Sam…jealous? "You just had a session with Ms. Simon? You just came from her office?"

Sam kept his pace up the stairs, wondering where Toad was going with this, why he cared. "So where are you applying? Have you decided? Studying for the SATs already, I bet. Hey, we have an after school group in the library for studying…" and at the landing between floors, Sam turned to Toad, was so much taller that he had to adjust the angle of his stare, felt himself embody the verb 'loom'.

The words didn't come, stuck in his throat like saltine crackers on a hot day. He could say anything he liked in Ms. Simon's office, could fill out forms, flip through the binder of glossy university come-hither brochures, discuss foreign concepts like 'admission fees' and 'campus life', but that was _in there_. It wasn't _out here_, not yet, and he preferred to keep it that way.

He opened his mouth to make some excuse, because he sure as hell wasn't sitting with a bunch of geeks in the school library when he could study perfectly fine in the public library or his room, but he was abruptly shoved from behind, hard. Without warning, he overbalanced into Toad, crushed him against the wall. Sam's elbow came up instinctively, connected in a soft spot of whomever it was standing too close behind him.

Ducking his head automatically instead of turning, Sam stepped sideways and only then pivoted to see who it was. The linebacker and his short blond friend, striped rugby shirts and baggy jeans. The linebacker was rubbing his upper arm where Sam's elbow had jabbed him.

The linebacker gave one of those non-smiles meant to convey the opposite of an actual smile. "They say guys who grow too quickly get all uncoordinated. That what happened to you, freak?"

Sam stood very still but did not lower his stare.

The linebacker pulled his friend along with him as he joined the seething mass on the stairs and the bell rang and Sam grimaced. Only that, then continued on his way.

He and Toad entered the classroom together and took their seats, Toad at the front, Sam settling into the back. It was the one class where he wouldn't have minded being nearer the front, but he was always aware of how he blocked everyone else's view, even when he hunched over.

Most students were laughing, the weekend coming up, the stupid Halloween dance coming up, who gave a shit, and then Ms. Simon walked in. Sam noticed her quiet entrance immediately, always seemed to have his radar ready for her. She could easily be mistaken for one of her students except for the fact that as soon as she entered, the class calmed like a boiling pot taken off a glowing element.

A rumor was going round that she was pregnant, would be taking a leave in the spring. The girls seated directly in front of Sam had been tittering about it like it was a dirty secret, commenting on how hot Ms. Simon's husband was. Sam had no idea about the relative hotness of her husband, but he'd seen a picture of the two of them on her bookshelf. He'd found himself not wanting to think about it, about them, about her and of course he did. None of his business, he told himself repeatedly and it wasn't working.

Her face was calm, almost serene. She had a stack of papers in her hand. They'd just finished _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_ and Sam was expecting a new novel today. Instead, Ms. Simon turned to the black board, picked up a piece of chalk, tossed it in her hand, sure of their attention, and wrote: _Surprise Quiz_.

Huge groan from the class. Sam sneaked a grin. He'd devoured _Tess_, appreciating its themes of justice and caprice, domination and determination, being doomed by your family and the past.

_Bring it on, Ms. Simon, what's the worst you can do?_

Her handwriting was sloppy as a fourteen-year-old boy's, slanting backwards and forwards like it couldn't make up its mind. _Percentage of Final Mark: 50_. More than groans now.

"Ms…" someone to Sam's left called out, but she kept going without paying them the slightest attention.

_Rules: This quiz is pass/fail. You must answer every question correctly to pass. You have 45 minutes._

This was met with stunned silence. Even Sam felt his heart beating faster.

Marks were actually important to him now, not just a game. If he wanted to get serious about whatever future he was going to have, he needed the marks to back him up. Otherwise he was just another kid with a spotty attendance record, limited demonstrable social skills, haphazard participation in track events, and a singular lack of commitment to school citizenship. Marks were what he had, that and Ms. Simon's belief that he could do it.

She walked between the rows, slapping down the single sheet of paper, face down. When she was done she turned at the door, hand on the knob. Still serene. "I'll be back at 3:30. You may begin. Good luck." And left the room.

Taking a deep breath, holding a pen in one hand, Sam turned the sheet over.

The first five questions were:

Who was the father of Romulus and Remus?

The longest river in North America is:

_Deus ex machina_ means:

Finish the phrase: _Liberté_, _égalité_, and:

"How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is/To have a thankless child!" Who is the playwright, and who is the speaker?

He knew the answer to maybe five of the thirty-five questions, none of which had anything to do with any novel they had read so far. With a sinking heart, he re-read them all, jotted in what he did know. Raising his eyes from his desk, he watched the other silent students as they fidgeted over their desks, almost none of them writing, one or two twirling pencils like batons, chewing fingernails.

These were not questions that any one of them would know all the answers to.

Fifty percent of their final grade. Sam was _not_ going to fail this test. She wasn't an unfair teacher and this was a patently unfair test, so there must be something that they weren't seeing. It was like walking into a haunted house without knowing what the story was, or how to lay the thing to rest. His father always said that you couldn't think in straight lines, you had to think in circles.

So Sam didn't come at it straight on, he came at the problem from the outside, didn't think like a student for a minute. And got it. He cleared his throat, unafraid, merely finding the right grip on certainty. The right grip so he could swing it like a hammer.

And then he stood up in the stricken classroom.

"Um," he started, and realized he needed to be direct otherwise they would scatter like chickens. "I know the answers to questions 3, 4, 5, 11, and 22. Anybody else sure?" And he moved to the board, picked up the piece of chalk that Ms. Simon had left on the ledge with one hand, the exam in the other. He quickly wrote the numbers one through thirty-five on the board, filled in the information he knew.

A few other students called out answers, but they were mostly guesses, not real knowledge. Sam wrote them in with question marks. Everyone stayed seated, mesmerized by what Sam was doing. They were all _looking at him_. Different than the judging sly glances at the new guy.

"Okay," he said, not giving up, realizing they had maybe seven correct answers. He looked at the class, at Ms. Simon's rules on the far board. Looked at the door, a thought occurring to him. "Okay," he repeated, nodding, thinking in encompassing circles instead of static straight lines. "She didn't say we couldn't leave the class for the library."

And then he assigned one question to each student. He checked his watch. They had thirty minutes. Thirty minutes to research one question each. "Back here in 25 minutes or we're toast," he told them, but it was hard to stop the grin in his voice from reaching his face, because here was a challenge and he could see a path through it, if he could only convince them. "You've got your question. Make it fast."

They made it fast. The Latin name for the purple sea urchin. The name of Muhammad's successor according to Shiite Muslims. The periodic symbol for silver. The death date of Leonardo da Vinci. The motto of FC Barcelona. Sam rode shotgun over all of them, hurrying along those that had difficulty, pairing up weaker with stronger, not listening to the moans of the slackers.

He herded them back to the classroom by twenty-five after the hour, and they told him their answers, and he and Toad wrote them on the board next to the corresponding number.

Twenty-eight after and he wiped chalk dust across his chest, stared hard at the board. No blanks. Behind him, students were scribbling furiously to get their answers down on the exam papers. Sam rushed to his desk, picked up his pen and did the same. His writing was tight, neat, crabbed. _Exultant_.

"Well, well," he heard her voice, low and melodic, full of the deep south, toffee smooth. Without looking up, without stopping his furious writing, he smiled wide. The bell sounded, but no one moved, too stunned maybe, still writing.

Ms. Simon stood at the front of the class, leaning against the door, dimples pulled at the corners of her mouth. "Okay," she finally said, nodding. The class was still quiet, a miracle. "Y'all done?" and she looked to the board.

"Yes ma'am," Toad answered.

"Which one of you stood up?" she asked. The room was very quiet then, and Sam could hear the rush of students outside, now the end of the day, running for buses, or rides, or things that were more important than school. But here, right now, all the students knew that there was nothing more important than this.

No one said anything. Maybe no one remembered his name.

Except one. "Sam. Sam organized us." Toad's voice wasn't loud but it didn't have to be.

Ms. Simon's eyes met Sam's and he returned her smile, but only for one second because then he had to look away because everything was too much, too bright. She'd known coming in here who had stood up.

"Okay," Ms. Simon murmured. "I hate to say it, because you've done good work, but this exam doesn't count. It was just an exercise to see what you'd do." She looked to the black board, her eyes full of something like pride, like sorrow, was not like anything Sam had ever seen from a teacher before.

The comprehensive gaze gathered them like wildflowers from the field. She nodded, perfectly contained, almost quivering with held emotion. "Monday, we start _Lord of the Flies_. Have a good weekend everyone."

--

_Bit o'Paris Motel, Niagara Falls NY, present day_

By the time Dean returned with the third load of laundry, Sam had progressed into full panic mode. It manifested as cold sweats, shaky hands. Giddy haphazard thoughts, stomach roiling.

A complete inability in deciding what to wear.

Jeans and sneakers were too juvenile; a baggy plaid shirt even more so. The suit and tie and Dean would _know_. And she would too. A pale-patterned button up shirt that Dean had once disparaged as 'upholstery'. She'd ask about the cast and he'd tell her 'baseball', not 'zombie'. He even found himself wondering what he'd been wearing the last time he'd seen her, at which point he hoped to god Dean would just shoot him.

Fortunately, Dean wasn't paying much attention to Sam. Instead of noticing his brother's scattershot approach to getting himself dressed, Dean was sorting through a pile of clean laundry, stacking socks together. He only had two types: white and black. He never matched them beyond that basic distinction, a practice that Sam found both strangely admirable and irritating beyond belief.

_Hope he's washed those jeans, _Sam thought, pulled back to what he really should be worrying about, staring at Dean's back_. Or thrown them out. Along with the tape._

"I think it's probably better this way," Sam said. Repeated actually. It was the last thing he'd said before Dean had taken the previous load to the motel's laundry facilities.

Dean rolled up a clean T-shirt and stuffed it in his empty duffle. "So you said." Not inviting more.

Sam grimaced, fingered the shirts he'd hung on the chrome rack by the door. _I shouldn't leave him alone._ Worry was immediately consumed by self-loathing. _ Chickenshit; she's just an old teacher._

Sam had selected the motel this time. At this time of year they'd had their pick of accommodations, most of which were clustered around the tourist area near the park, expensive even in the off-season. The Bit o' Paris Motel was three miles upriver along the Robert Moses State Parkway from the Falls. It was a cheap family-run place that appeared to have been last renovated during the Eisenhower administration. Their room contained a small fridge that fit twelve beer if you laid them on their side, its walls submarine green, lit by crimson lamps that Sam assumed were meant to convey the ambience of a Spanish hacienda. As motels went, it was far from the worst they'd stayed in.

Best of all, the beds were long and the mattresses had been purchased in the last decade.

"You know, it's better if I see her alone at first. We're just going to talk school." A bird in a downdraft, Sam's voice fell, soft like that. Talking school.

Dean still didn't look up. "Good times," like he wasn't even listening.

"So, what are you going to do?" Sam faltered again, abruptly decided on the upholstery shirt. "While I'm…"

Finally, Dean straightened and Sam knew he was annoyed. "While you're on your date, Sammy? While you're talking school with your hot teacher? Well, let's see," and he sat on the bed, hands between his knees. "Might wander round town. Oh wait," and he smiled at Sam, but it was shallow as rainwater on a dark street, "you'll have the car." He eyed the television. "The owner said we get seventy channels. Gotta be something on."

Using the act of dressing as a stall tactic, Sam pulled on the shirt, buttoned it, chose grey cords, boots. "You're not going to…you're not going to go out, right? I mean, you'll stay right here." Half question, half plea.

Both useless.

Dean had already stretched out on the bed, discovered that though the television might get seventy channels, the remote didn't work. He threw it to one side, scrubbed his face with both hands "What the fuck, Sam? You want me to phone you every half hour? Mrs. Robinson is going to be _so_ impressed with that."

Sam rested both hands on top of the dresser, counted to ten before turning.

"We're going to be here longer than a week, Dean."

Dean pushed the remaining clothes to one side of the bed with his foot, the socks tumbling to the floor. "Yeah? How you figure that?"

"The gym. There was…a banner with a big turkey on it."

Dean's eyebrows crawled infinitesimally upwards. "You know how fucking dumb that sounds, right?"

Sam had made sighs into an art form. "Thanksgiving. Still three weeks away."

Dean fished around in his front pocket for his keys. "Thank god you didn't see a bunny with a bunch of colored eggs, because I'm not sticking around till spring."

_Not this time_, was left unspoken as Sam caught the tossed keys. He nodded to Dean, worried, anxious, knowing he was asking his brother to do the one thing he didn't want to do, which was to stay still. To stay in a place that felt like a noose, a cudgel used to beat them with the past. _Stay here, Dean. Don't follow me._

And again, unsaid:_ Not this time, not ever again_.

--

_Niagara Falls NY, November 2, 2000_

The second of November was always so hard for Dad, and Dean was having a difficult time not snapping at Sam for being such a jerk. Okay, so Sam had barely been there, certainly didn't remember it. Shit, _Dean_ could scarcely remember it, just flame and the weight of Sam wriggling in his arms, heat on his back.

But this wasn't ignorance, this was a willful disregard for the man's feelings. Sam would have argued that John Winchester didn't have feelings like the rest of them, and he might actually be right about that, but it was still no excuse.

Sam had been a pissy little bitch all afternoon, trying to study and sighing at every little noise they'd made, answering all questions with mumbles and sharp glances. Until Dad had seen a stray WalMart flyer advertising half-price Halloween costumes. Throwing it into the trash, John had made some comment that Dean hadn't even caught, but which somehow hit Sam the wrong way and all hell had broken loose. Sam had actually accused Dad of ruining Halloween over the years with his 'totalitarian need to crush the life out of every innocent expression of deviance'. Whatever that meant.

It had ended with John grabbing his coat and heading out the door rather than yell at Sam on this day, of all days. _These were her sons._ Dean had given Sam a scathing stare, watched as Sam's eyes had lowered to the kitchen table, finally ashamed of himself.

The only things to eat in the house were rice and beans leftover from yesterday's Mexican take-outs and a bunch of weird vegetables that Sam had brought up the day before yesterday, claiming that Mr. Lum had foisted them on him. Free food, he'd insisted. Dean suspected subterfuge, Sam obliquely judging them for eating like hyenas. One bunch looked vaguely like broccoli, so Dean decided he could boil it and reheat the rice, call it dinner if he poured some of that jarred salsa on top.

Sam had a heavy, well-thumbed book open on the table between them, and Dean watched his eyes scan the lines of text as he slowly chewed the food without looking at it. He didn't say a word, his color still high, tight in the mouth when he wasn't chewing.

"So, what are you studying?" Shit, he must be desperate for conversation, asking Sam that.

Sam's eyes slid to Dean, wary, then back to the book. "What do you care?"

The splint on Dean's wrist had made it hard to do a lot of things, but not slapping Sam upside the head. In fact, the splint made it easy to get a reaction from Sam, because the metal _hurt_. Still, Dean wasn't in the mood. "I care," he protested, and Sam shut the book, stared at Dean.

"What?" Sam demanded.

"What do you mean, what?" But with a grin. _C'mon, Sam. Just us two. You don't have to do this._

Dean watched Sam fight the smile. "Okay, fine. Economic geography."

Served him right for asking, he supposed. "Found an explanation for this armpit of a town?" he asked.

Sam leaned back in the chair, not bothering to disguise his reluctant smile. "Partly. Big natural wonder gives a better view to the Canadian side. New York State jumped on the bandwagon late in terms of developing a tourism market." He paused, the smile slipping. "Doesn't explain the ghosts." His attention fastened on Dean's healing wrist, then up to the pink scar on his hairline.

Dean grinned, keeping it light. "Economic geography explains the new truck, though, don't it?" That with a laugh, because it'd been rare to see their dad happy about anything lately, let alone a surprise inheritance. John Winchester didn't like to be in anyone's debt, especially a dead man's. "If that geological freak show wasn't smack in the middle of town, Patrick McGreevy wouldn't have taken a swan dive from it and Dad wouldn't have his truck."

"And you wouldn't have the Impala." Sam noted dryly.

Dad hadn't actually said that the Impala was Dean's, not yet. They'd all felt the shift in the dynamic, though. "Dad has two vehicles now, that's all," he deflected easily, not wanting to jinx anything.

"Not as though McGreevy needs it," Sam continued, stating the obvious. Though there were witnesses to his jump, McGreevy's body hadn't been found, and it had been three months since Pastor Jim had called their father about the hunter's suicide. "Not as though he was on speaking terms with any of his family." John and Pastor Jim had been named in the will, the closest thing to friends McGreevy had had. Which was a fairly damning indictment of the hunting profession, Sam was on the verge of telling Dean; Dean could see it in the set of Sam's shoulders.

"Wonder why someone like McGreevy jumps?" Dean asked, trying to trip Sam up before he got on his high horse. "I mean, he was a pretty straight-laced, decent guy -"

"For a hunter," Sam breathed, a tendril of anger threaded through it.

"For a hunter," Dean agreed, not willing to be drawn into it.

"Obsessed by the Falls, though. Shit, hunters are weird, always obsessed with something. I mean," and Sam leaned forward, elbows balanced on the table since their father wasn't here to enforce military table etiquette, "the Falls are scary and beautiful. But not evil, right?" He stopped and Dean only had a second to wonder what he was thinking. "What did you hear? Before you ju-…fell."

For a brief moment, Dean saw that Sam was scared, saw Sam as he was a few years ago, when his whole world had been the car and them and the highway speeding by.

He shrugged with one shoulder, still unsure what had happened. One minute, a bright crisp day, sun perched on the horizon, everything orange and gold, the next, a sudden bone-deep chill, and the whole edge where water met air was _doable_, was a neat trick to pull, just _there_ for the taking, if you were brave enough.

And he was.

Only a half second to realize that it was an unnatural maze of desire, and it wasn't his. Shit, the roar of the water matching the roar of _wonder_ and _over, over, over_ – it could all be his, the fame, the adoration, the praise. All his.

Except – not. He wasn't a dummy, had seen too many otherworldly things not to know better. Fame and praise and adoration were antithetical to his chosen profession, were foreign to _him_, but he'd still been on the railing before he could stop himself, and in stopping himself had lost his balance. Hadn't been pushed, and hadn't jumped. Had simply fucked up at a critical moment. Deserved the tongue-lashing Dad had given him when he'd woken up on the sofa, head basketball big, arm in a splint, T-shirt ruined beyond any laundry detergent's claim to clean.

He remembered nothing of how he'd gotten back up the escarpment, or of driving home, or getting stitched up. Or having his wrist set, thank god. Nothing he hated worse than Dad setting his bones unless it was having him relocate a popped shoulder.

He shrugged. "I don't know. Just wanted me to jump, told me I wasn't going to die if I did it." He looked away, uncomfortable. "There's more rice in the pot."

"Any more salsa?" Sam asked, but Dean shook his head. "Hey Dean?" Sam asked a few minutes later, when the rice was gone.

"Yeah?" Dean was flipping through Sam's textbook, not taking in any of the words, or even the pictures, just feeling the urge to get out of the apartment because he didn't know where Dad had gotten to and that wasn't good. He looked up when Sam didn't immediately go on. "Yeah?"

Sam got to his feet, took their plates to the sink. He turned, leaned against the counter. God, he had gotten so tall, Dean thought, remembering him tiny in his arms. "You ever…I mean, you ever think about doing something? Something that's not, you know, hunting-"

"_No_." Flat out, not even worth considering. Squash that fucking thing where it was, because he'd tried it, hadn't he? He'd tried the outside world and it had kicked the crap out of him. Here at least he knew the rules. The rules hunters lived by were fucked, yes, and they were unfair, but he could play by them. And there was Dad and there was Sam, and that's all he needed.

Sam closed up immediately, but Dean still couldn't find the heart to regret what he'd said. Sam nodded, almost to himself. "Yeah," he laughed, not quite agreeing. "I have a test tomorrow," he added softly, gesturing to the textbook closed on the table.

Dean nodded. "I'll get out of your freaky head of hair, then. Don't bother with those," and he flicked a finger at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. "Just do what you do best, Einstein," and unhooked his leather coat from the back of the door.

He'd meant to drive the Impala around, see if he could spot Dad's truck, but he ended up walking, wanting to stretch his legs, allay some of the sediment that had been stirred up by Sam's poking around. If he walked, it would settle again and he could go on paying no attention to it.

No, he didn't think about doing anything other than hunting.

Of course he walked down to the Falls. Because he was brave enough, even for them. He wasn't going to be spooked by a bunch of vaporous nutjobs. _Fuck them_.

He heard the Falls long before he saw them. First just a hush beyond the blur of traffic, then more pronounced. By the time he'd reached the edge of the State Park rimming the American side, the sound of water was like the roar of battle, like a thousand voices calling for the enemy's blood.

It was fully dark, but the Canadians used a huge amount of the provincial budget to light the Horseshoe Falls on the Canadian side and their American counterparts could hardly look stingy in the face of that. Not that anyone benefited but the Canadians: Sam was right. The only thing you really got a good view of from America was Canada. No wonder the Ontarian city was a faux-jeweled neon whore next to the ugly duckling sister across the border, not a ten-minute walk across the Rainbow Bridge.

Economic geography.

Patrick McGreevy was the expert in violent-death ghosts, particularly ones who had been tempting fate, taking risks. Over the years, John had said, McGreevy had become particularly interested in Niagara Falls, kept a detailed journal and file folder. He'd written that the ghosts here were getting stronger, and were starting to exert what influence they had on the living.

Dean had never been scared of ghosts. _Be prepared, like a boy scout going for his paranormal badge_. He didn't need a salt gun – didn't work with these assholes, anyway – just the knowledge that they'd try to tempt him. He took the footpath to the river's edge; it was well-signed, well-lit. A thin bridge ran from the park to Goat Island, the big island separating the river into the American and Canadian Falls. That was not what drew your attention, though.

In the glow of purples and greens – the floodlights of two nations – a staggering amount of water plummeted over the cliff's edge, fell in a block sheet, four million cubic feet per minute, the most powerful waterfall in North America. And it was _big_, that's what most people didn't realize, it was fucking huge. He stood leaning against the railing, not even seeing the most spectacular part of the Falls – the curving Canadian Horseshoe Falls hidden behind Goat Island. The American Falls were plenty scary enough.

They'd already been here five weeks and two people had jumped in that time, as far as they'd been able to find out from purloined police blotters. McGreevy before that. Hard to get reliable statistics, since both Canadian and American Chambers of Commerce weren't anxious to spread those kinds of numbers, but that seemed like a lot, particularly since none of the jumpers had been suicidal, especially not McGreevy.

Dean was soaking wet, wiped mist from his face, shivering. At the top of the rock table, the water was so dark and translucent it didn't even look like it was moving. Only when it hit air did it seem to realize what was in store and then it just went berserk, flashing into gold and green and purple and azure and a million other colors that water made when it mixed with light.

Dean swallowed hard, hearing songs of glory, feeling the lift, thinking of the Falls as a living thing.

Then his phone rang and he'd forgotten it was in his pocket. He checked the number, grimaced, glad in a way and dreading it. "Dad?" he asked.

"Dean, come get me. I'm buying." John said the name of a bar that Dean didn't recognize.

Dean walked there in under fifteen minutes and when he opened the door, the warmth and the smoke of the place hit him like a punch to the gut. He spotted John slumped between a table and a wall, an empty pitcher surrounded by a little family of spent shot glasses on the table in front of him.

"Raining?" John asked, puzzled.

Dean shook waterfall from his hair, smiling slightly. "Mist," he said, trying to gauge what might set John off. Hard to know. "Went for a walk down by the Falls."

His dad's jaw clenched, but he gestured for Dean to sit, keeping his morose dark eyes on him at all times. A waiter sailed by, dropped another pitcher of beer down, two shots of rye whiskey and a pair of clean glasses. John paid with a crumpled bill, waved away the change.

"Keep the fuck away from there," he grumbled, but there was no heat to it. "Dangerous for a young man with ambition," he smiled at Dean, who looked away, poured them both a beer.

Two could play this game; Dean knew the rules. He held up the brimming shot glass. "To mom." And knocked it back. Keep away, that's what they were playing now. Defense, defense, defense.

"Those Caspers aren't gonna get me again," Dean finally continued. "I got their number. Just took me by surprise that last time, that's all."

John shrugged, not really agreeing. "Got McGreevy in the end, and he knew as much as us about spirits like that. More. You keep Sam away," he said, showing more insight than Dean would have given him credit for.

He nodded. "I was planning on it. He's busy with school, anyway."

John grimaced as though 'school' was a point of contention. Dean supposed it was, in a way. "Sam's a busy boy. We'll handle this one, okay?" He smiled again, and Dean saw right through it. "Just you and me."

Shit, Dean wanted to believe what was on offer, wanted it to be true, this drunken camaraderie as false as the ghost promises. But they were not equals, John and Dean, they were not _partners_. And that was actually okay, Dean thought. _Let's not pretend it's anything else, though, okay?_

When Dean said nothing, John went on. "We just need to clear out these fuckers and then we'll be on our way. But," and his focus was far away, years away maybe. "Something's not right here." He tapped the table absently, agitation touching his words. "These ghosts. They're strong. Coordinated. Ghosts are a lot of things, but coordinated is not one of them."

His voice was a little bit louder than Dean liked, given the subject matter, and was the only indicator that John was drunk as a Russian sailor on shore leave. No one sitting near enough to hear them, though.

"We should take our time, then," Dean suggested, not wanting to contradict the man. Worse was possible from a drunk John than loudly talking about ghosts. "Do it right."

John eyed him, a smile-like thing on his face that Dean mistrusted. "You think they might be controlled by something…I don't know, _darker_?"

Oh, yeah, here it comes. Fuck, a waitress is slow with coffee in a diner and it's the fault of a demon. "Dad, they're just ghosts." That was contrariness, pure and simple, but Dean couldn't support this particular obsession, not tonight. Not this night. Because he might not remember much, but he remembered _her_ and he remembered that it hadn't always been this way, even if John didn't. Wouldn't. Dean could do that for him. For all of them.

John smiled again, but it faltered over something harder and less known to Dean. "I'm so tired, son."

"I know," Dean whispered. "Let's go home."

John just stared at him as though he was speaking a foreign language. It took Dean a long time to realize that his father was fighting tears. By the time he did, the moment had passed, and John was already gathering his coat, unsteady and closed and moving as though something had shattered inside him and had not been properly cleaned up.

--

_Cauldron Café, Niagara Falls NY, present day_

For a moment, Sam wondered if she'd actually shrunk.

Then realized that years had gone by and that he'd just gotten bigger. He'd heard people saying that before, that places and people from childhood didn't look as big when you saw them as an adult, but the only constant things he remembered were his brother and his dad and the Impala, and they'd all just aged right along with him.

So this was a new sensation, right here. One among many he was about to have, it turned out.

She was sitting in one of those comfy deep chairs that were designed to make people feel like they were in their living room while they were drinking expensive coffee, staring into some indeterminate middle distance, a cup held to her lips, unmoving. As soon as Sam opened the glass door and brushed rain from his shoulders, pushed back wet hair from his forehead, she put down the coffee, smiled, and got to her feet.

And she was way shorter than he remembered. When he'd thought about her over the years, it had always been in terms of the big things: big laugh, big eyes, big smile. Big belly, because of the baby, a shocking reminder to all that she was sexually active, in your face, right there in the middle of the high school.

Way shorter, but the same in a lot of ways; she was at that age where you didn't change much over a decade, just became more of who you always were.

He hadn't said goodbye the last time he'd seen her, even though he'd known it was exactly that. Hadn't said thank you either, which was worse.

"Hey!" she cried, holding out her hands halfway, almost daring him to hug. He hung back for a fraction of a second too long and she expertly altered her stance, made it look natural. Instead she took his uncasted hand in both of hers, not quite a shake. Her hands were warm from cradling the coffee mug.

Sam realized that his ears were buzzing and that he hadn't actually managed to say anything yet. He could remedy that. He knew how to talk, if nothing else.

"I'm going to grab a coffee, you need anything?" he tried and it worked; she shook her head with a smile, sat back down again and he was able to collect himself enough to order more caffeine than was probably wise this late in the afternoon.

Taking a seat opposite her, he noticed that she had a pile of student papers stacked on the little table between the two large armchairs. He gestured with his nose. "Marking?"

She nodded, at the same time considering him in a familiar way. Sizing him up. Not because she wanted to fight, not because she thought he would be a challenge, but because she wanted to see what he would do. What he would become. What he _had_ become.

She _saw_ him.

Sam swallowed coffee too hot to be reasonably swallowed, coughed, and put down the cup on the table, careful not to spill any on himself or the essays. Novels 12, he read on the cover sheet of the top paper. "Wow, same class, Ms. Simon?"

She held up a hand, widened her eyes in faux alarm. "Please. Along with a diploma, when you graduate, you get to call me Elise. Dear lord."

And that felt better, that humor, and the name, because he'd never felt truly comfortable calling her Ms. Simon anyway, not towards the end. A mere honorific and a surname confined her in some way he didn't like, made her anonymous.

"Sure," he grinned back. "Novels 12, though. Must get stale after awhile."

She shrugged. "Yeah, but I guess the administration thinks I'm doing something right. They keep giving it to me," and the smile this time was crooked, self-deprecating.

This led into a discussion of what other courses she was teaching, and whether the school was any better or worse than it had been when Sam graduated, and which teachers were still there, and which ones had moved on. Most had, apparently.

"Not you, though?" he asked, leaning back into the chair, the coffee cool enough now to drink.

She became very still, her coffee long gone, jeaned legs drawn up on the chair, arms looped around her bent knees. Hair bound back and he could see where grief had marked her, right then. She shook her head very slowly, soft like branches moving in a breeze. "This is where Chloe was born. This is where her ashes are scattered. If I'm here…" and her voice trailed off and she looked away. Sam had seen enough – hell, been through enough himself – to know when to keep quiet.

Eventually, her attention came back to him, composed, china-doll smooth. "That was the hard part for Danny, being here. Too many memories, you know?"

Everything begged for him to move, to say something, but he held firm, tight, knowing that she needed him to do that. If he did that, she could talk, could tell him.

"He was the one driving and he didn't forgive himself and everything I thought was solid came crashing down. House of cards." She didn't make work with her hands, didn't brush away imaginary crumbs or fiddle with her earrings or pluck a loose thread from her pearl-button cowboy shirt. "He went back to Georgia. Remarried." She took a long breath and then turned the blue laser beams on him and he'd forgotten this trick of hers. Open to receive meant open to give and vice versa. His turn.

"What about you, Sam Winchester?"

That took a long time, even with all the stuff he skipped.

One of the things he left out was the fact that he didn't technically have a degree. Oh sure, he talked about his classes, the extracurricular stuff that had given him a leg up with the law school applications – mentoring first year students, his job in the law library, organizing the study groups. The LSATs and the scores, right up to the Monday law school interview that had never happened. On account of what _had_ happened. Then the driving, which he glossed over, because it was all kinda the same if you weren't actually explaining about hunting ghosts and wendigos and daevas. He ended up with the car accident and Dad. Stopped there, couldn't bear to look at her for what he'd see.

After a minute he did, because she was so quiet. But it wasn't pity on her face. It was something else and hoping for it didn't make it true. But he recognized it anyway. _Pride_.

He'd done okay, and she was proud of him.

"And since then?" she prompted, probably totally misinterpreting the shine in his eyes.

Sam shrugged. "More driving." Like that was any explanation.

"You looking to settle down? Is that why you've come back?"

God, it was like she spent hours on her marksmanship. He shook his head. "No way Dean could, you know? He's like a shark," and he waved the blade of his hand through the air, weaving back and forth. "Needs to keep moving." And they were staying put and Sam was making him and this was the first time in an hour that he'd thought of Dean in the present tense.

"Too bad," she murmured.

Too bad? What the hell did that mean? And he'd always had a transparent face, that had been something that every bully from Arkansas to Oregon had known: Sam's mad, Sam's happy, Sam's scared, Sam's worried. Dean had given up trying to show him how to play poker.

So she noticed. A laugh, the big one he'd been waiting to hear. "God, no, sorry. I mean. A Stanford grad with experience in mentoring students? Are you joking? We're desperate for supply teachers. We've got a vacancy right now for someone to teach Law." Her intent stare was thrilling and the scariest thing Sam had seen in a long time, because he knew exactly what he was going to say next.

Later, he'd explain it to Dean in terms of 'needing to get into the school' and 'finding out more about what's going to happen' but it was nothing like that and he knew it.

"Sure." Cleared his throat so there could be no mistaking it. "I'll do it."

--

_So the grieving mother has a new boyfriend_, Billy thought, seeing them leave the café together, the tall man smiling wide, idiot hadn't brought an umbrella or a raincoat and it was fucking pouring now. She must like them young and dumb. Figured.

He couldn't have said why he'd taken to following her. Christ, it wasn't as though he liked her or anything. Her sanctimonious mouthing of 'rising to challenges' and 'preparing for eventualities' made him want to shake her so hard her neck snapped.

It was possible to do that, he knew. The average human body was a frail thing, a package of blood and flesh and brittle sticks that moved the sack along. Not much, for all the creams and powders and enhancers and regimens that every TV channel and street billboard seemed to shill. Who the fuck cared?

He took the bus home. He almost _liked_ the bus, mostly because of the smell. No one pretended on the bus. No one thought they were better. It was a tin tube transporting people who had given up on life and Billy sat at the back, met the stare of anyone who looked his way.

The inane conversations were immaterial, useless except as a point of reference for the rest, because he'd hear what they _weren't_ saying, which was always much more interesting. Or at least, it used to be interesting. When all this had started more than a year ago now, it had _been_ interesting. But now these shitty people and their shitty lives were all so dull, trivial. Who the fuck cared what they thought, what they felt? The lies they told each other and themselves? Billy almost wanted to walk rather than overhear their chatter.

But Daphne thought the bus was 'déclassé' and that was enough for Billy. First week he'd had the Lexus, he and Marcus Delindo had left it with the keys in the ignition in the worst part of this pathetic town for whatever subhuman had stumbled upon it_. Oooh, your lucky day, gangsta boy. _ Dad had commiserated, offered to buy him another. Billy had smirked, said he'd rather take the bus. Dad had thought he was beating himself up too much, that it was probably that Marcus Delindo's fault.

Sucker.

Billy didn't know why he should be interested in this new boyfriend of Ms. Bleeding Heart Simon, but he'd figure it out. There would be a way to figure it out. He hadn't received any messages from his new friend lately, but Billy wasn't worried. Something about Ms. Simon and something about this guy was important, or he wouldn't be thinking about it so much.

He went home and dripped mud and rain through Daphne's new white kitchen, dropped into the chair in the living room, pushing Erica onto the floor. She didn't complain. She looked up at him, adoration in her eyes. Upstairs, he heard Colleen start to cry over some lack or some hurt. Fuck, he had to get out of here.

He wasn't going to go alone, though. He'd been promised.

--

_Rainbow Bridge, Niagara Falls USA-Canada, November 2000_

It was too fucking cold to walk, but the line up for a car to go through customs was two miles long and they were only going for the afternoon. The sun was bright, the wind on the bridge was brutal, but Dean had money in his wallet and Sam needed a break from all the books and fuck it if Thanksgiving didn't make Dean want to shoot up a turkey farm. At least in Canada Thanksgiving was long past.

Thanksgiving and all the news items were about 'getting together with family' and 'going home' and no one seemed to notice that three more people had thrown themselves off Luna Island, two into the American Falls and one into the Bridal Veil. No one survived those falls, not with the rocks. Like car fatalities, it was unfortunate but not unexpected.

Pulling his knit cap down over ears burning with cold, Dean glanced over his left shoulder as the Horseshoe Falls came into view. His pace altered only a fraction, but Sam noticed, slowed up, followed his stare. Smiled, and they walked to the railing, leaned their elbows on it, gloved hands tucked under armpits for warmth. The wind whipped tears from Dean's eyes.

"You know the legend, right?" Sam asked, eyes on the Horseshoe and the vapor cloud kicked up from the Cauldron below.

"The Snake?" A tourist ploy, their father had declared. A re-fabrication of an old aboriginal story. "Maid of the Mist?" The cheapest of cheap tricks.

"What?" Sam challenged. "All the weird shit we've seen and you're going to discredit this one?"

Dean shrugged. "Doesn't explain the ghosts." Down by the Falls, he heard the ghosts all the time, felt like telling them to shut the fuck up, it was like a continuous party in the next room; he was almost growing used to their racket. If he concentrated, he could keep a level head. But if he got distracted, even for a minute? He couldn't hear the calls now, the ghosts were too far away, but he felt the pull.

He'd kept Sam away and Sam was apparently happy enough to be kept away. The ghosts would probably have Sam up and over the rails in under thirty seconds. _Gone_. Safer at school.

"You know why it's the honeymoon capital of the world?" Sam had that conversational tone, was imparting knowledge like he had a bag of Cheezies and was sharing.

"No," Dean returned, as though only geeks would know that sort of thing.

"Some scientists claim that all the negative ions released by the water act as an aphrodisiac."

Dean turned to Sam, who was smiling ear to ear. "What fucking locker room moron told you that?"

But Sam wasn't going to be mocked. "No, I tell you. I read it in one of the Niagara Falls history books in the local library."

"You were reading local history books?"

"Yeah," and he paused just enough for Dean to understand what was going on. He was _helping_. Best not to point it out. "Found out about the legend. Hell, you can hardly go to any tourist trap without it getting rammed down your throat, which is probably why Dad doesn't want to give it any play. Too obvious, right?" He eyed Dean, but was still smiling. A good day. "But you know the basics, how the Snake was poisoning the water and the aboriginal guys sacrificed a maiden to the water, but as she went over, one of the thunder god's two sons saved her, took her behind the Falls and married her. The Snake," and he withdrew one hand from under his armpit to point unnecessarily at the Horseshoe Falls, "still sleeps there."

Dean shook his head, emphatic. This was almost as bad as seeing demons in the cutlery drawer. "Yeah, the trouble is, it's not as though we've got poisoned water and a big ass snake. It's not some cockamamie old Indian legend, you geek. We've got ghosts. Lots and lots of ghosts. I'll _show_ you," and he kept walking toward Canada, and Sam followed, and the day was too bright and beautiful for any acrimony.

Customs was a breeze; two brothers on foot, no police records, only there for the afternoon, a Niagara Falls NY address. Easy. Dean led Sam toward the pyramid, because Niagara Falls Ontario had things like towers and Ferris wheels and dinosaur mini-golfs and pyramids.

In addition to the IMAX movie, the pyramid housed the Daredevil Gallery and it was free. No way was Dean going to spend any of his hard-earned coin on a stupid adventure movie about something that was literally right outside the fucking door. Jesus, the suckers that must fork out for tickets and popcorn, wandering about looking for their missing imaginations.

The gallery attached to the IMAX theater was full of iron. Iron-strapped barrels, painted hollow iron torpedoes, oddly shaped metal vessels like homemade bathyspheres. Many were painted with the names and dates of those who'd climbed in, battened the hatch and allowed themselves to be swept over the edge. Dean had scouted this the week before, bored, roaming around looking for something that wasn't dreary strip malls or lousy pizza outlets or gray housing tracts. Something that was bright and shiny and not full of wailing ghosts.

Then he'd found this place, had been looking for it without really knowing, because _over, over, over_ really only meant one thing: it wasn't suicide, it was _thrill_. There was a difference. These assholes really thought they were coming through the other side.

To be fair, some of them had.

The battered iron, scraped raw from the rocks, huge dents, a tiny hole that you could maybe stick your head into. That's what Sam did, anyway, and Dean grabbed him by the collar of his coat, stared at him like he was a lunatic. "Jesus, don't put your head in there. What are you, five?"

He dragged Sam over to a panel that listed casualties. "Look at this one," he pointed. "Charles Stephens, 1920, went over in a wooden barrel with straps for his arms and an anvil tied to his feet for ballast. What a dolt. Anvil broke through, carried him straight down. Drowned. All they found was one arm, still attached to the strap in the barrel."

"Buried the arm in a local cemetery," Sam finished and Dean could hear the laughter in his voice. "This is really sick, Dean."

"How about the guy who jet-skied off the Falls with a rocket-launched parachute?" and he pointed to a photo.

"Parachute didn't open?" Sam guessed.

"Wasn't _attached_," Dean replied with an amazed grin. "Think you'd double-check that before taking off."

Sam stared at another panel as Dean wandered a few feet to examine an iron sphere with a huge maple leaf painted on its side. "Hey, here's a guy on a tightrope. With a washing machine on his back."

"You got to the guy who thought he'd kayak over?"

Sam stared at Dean, realization dawning on his face. "Is this what you heard? These guys?" But softly, like he didn't want to believe it.

Dean shook his head, but it was not an answer, more of a '_not yet_'. Sam was always so goddamn fast. "Man, these are just ones we know about." Then he laughed, more of a giggle, really, because he spotted a photo of some guy trying to go over in an inner tube. "What a bunch of fucking morons. We're dealing with moron ghosts, Sammy."

Sam scuffed one toe on the carpet, shaking his head, amused. Dean knew that he was the object of Sam's amusement more than anything else, but that was okay. It was better than Sam's contempt.

"What?" But it didn't seem like Sam was mocking him. In fact, Dean could have sworn that Sam was happy for once, that something about Dean's graphic enthusiasm set Sam's gravitas at ease, balanced them out. "Dude, I'm a freakin' pro."

"Right," Sam smiled with Mona Lisa clarity. "A pro. If you and Dad ever get paid for any of this, let me know and I'll file a tax return on your behalf."

Dean flipped him a good-natured bird, and they wandered around the exhibit for a few minutes, Dean glancing over at Sam every so often, partially to make sure that he wasn't trying to get inside any barrels, and partially because he was delighted with himself.

He'd found a diversion that was definitely work-related, and was sort of educational, and was really, really morbidly fun. Something that Dean found hilarious and that Sam didn't immediately dismiss with an eye roll. He was supposed to keep Sam out of this; he knew that, because John had been perfectly clear on the subject. But this wasn't taking him to the Falls, really. This was just…fun.

Unable to contain his pleasure, Dean came up beside Sam, who was standing in front of a photographic display. "You see? The ghosts are these guys." He kept his voice down; even low season, there were still a lot of people around between the IMAX showings.

Sam nodded, but his attention was on the panel. "You could be right. Or they could just be more victims." He pointed to one color photo that had faded to orange and buff. "What year did McGreevy say the deaths started to escalate?"

Dean couldn't really make sense of the photo; it was too grainy and the subject was an aerial shot of an unfamiliar escarpment. "I think he said from 1970 on. Last thirty years or so. Why?"

Sam stepped to one side so Dean could come closer. He tapped the text under the photo and Dean suddenly understood what he was seeing, like that old time illustration of the woman and the vanity mirror that your eye would suddenly reorganize into a skull.

The American Falls. _Dry_.

He looked quickly at Sam, _whatthefuck_ dying on his lips before he had to look back. It was…strange. Unnatural.

"See?" Sam said, like it was obvious. "In 1969, they diverted all the water above Goat Island to the Horseshoe Falls, stopping the American Falls completely."

"Why?" Dean felt his stomach turn, like he'd just chugged down an expired carton of chunky milk. "Why would they do that?"

Sam was scouring the panel for more information. "Says here that they were looking to remove some of the talus-" glanced at Dean, looking for comprehension. Found none, apparently. "The rocks at the bottom there." He pointed to the tumble of huge boulders and smaller rocks that littered the bottom of the escarpment. "Doing some kind of preservation work. But they also thought the American Falls would appear more spectacular if they cleared some of that away. Reinforced some of the deterioration while they were at it, but apparently the talus was too big to move. Weird looking, huh?"

Sam looked more amazed at man's unmitigated gall more than anything else, playing with nature like that.

Dean just saw shadows and death and things not right. And the good day seemed colder and less bright. He shivered and Sam finally noticed. His mouth quirked. "This freakin' you out, Dean? 'Cause we could go to the bouncy castle next to the…"

"Fuck you," Dean said, but without venom. "I'm not finished here. I want to show you something else." Wanted to show him the real treat, after the work.

They went back out into the freezing cold, a few flakes of snow attempting to fall, but the sky was too clear and the flakes were really just advance scouts, nothing serious. Harbingers, though. Dean led them to Clifton Hill, which was difficult to miss on account of the huge inflatable dinosaur and the flashing neon on the three wax museums. At the top of the hill, however, rising two stories like a high-end mall married to Vegas strip club, lights flashing on and off, putting even the sun to shame, was a place that a teenager and a just-past teenager could lose themselves, maybe for days.

_Dazzleland_, the spinning, flashing letters spelled.

"What the hell is it?" Sam asked, brow furrowing.

"Well it's not a fucking library," Dean returned, really feeling the cold now, wanting more than anything to be inside. Still trying to shake the image of the dry Falls, truth be told. "I think they call it a Family Fun Center." And at Sam's expression, felt he had to add, "Really."

"Dazzleland?" Sam breathed, still not quite sold. "An arcade?"

Dean slapped him on the back of the head, which still hurt because the metal splint wasn't off yet, and told him how much money he'd won at the Casino Niagara's crap tables the night before last. And then told him that Dad didn't know about it and that what Dad didn't know about, they'd better get rid of before he did find out about it.

And that was one way to spend Thanksgiving.

--

TBC

a/n: Go to wikipedia and type in 'Niagara Falls' for more information, including the amazing picture of when engineers did 'shut off' the falls in 1969.


	4. Ticket to Ride

**Chapter Four/Ticket to Ride**

**Summary**: "Someone goes over Niagara in a barrel. You gonna jump in and try to save them?" – _Dean Winchester, Crossroad Blues._ Sam's making plans, and they don't include his father or hunting. They might not even include Dean. High school in two time periods.

**Rating: **Gen, PG-13: mostly due to sublime profanities. WIP, will be 10 chapters. Horror/drama

**Spoilers**: present-day action takes place between _Crossroad Blues_ up to _Croatoan_.

**Paying the Piper**: If any money was changing hands, I wouldn't still be crossing the clients' 't's and fixing their there/they're, would I? So just back off, Kripke. As always, my gratitude goes to the ever-fabulous betas, jmm0001 and Lemmypie. JM fixes all my problems when I don't even know they're problems. Lemmy squees and hi-fives and lets me know when my Canadian is showing. More thanks this time also go to gemini grrl11 for providing me with awesome reconstructions of Niagara Falls on the less-flashy side, and to kimonkey7 for fetching fantastic frozen falls photos. Don't try that kind of alliteration without adult supervision, kids. My man, A2, also let me steal his teaching techniques for getting youth talking about Criminology. He even knew what I was going to do with it. Sorry for the delay on this chapter: when RL gears up to fiscal year end, a freelancer needs her posse.

**STF**: Niagara Falls High School, Class of '01 – Sam is forging ahead with his covert post-graduation plans aided by a sympathetic teacher, Elise Simon. John and Dean are vexed by the ghosts of Falls daredevils, who seem to be enticing others to jump, particularly young men. In the present day, Dean is increasingly detached from his usual patterns, retreating from Sam and violently lashing out at complete strangers. Sam's worried but has other distractions: his vision of Ms. Simon being murdered draws the brothers back to Niagara Falls, where she offers Sam a job as a supply teacher. In the background, student Billy Shuter is hearing voices and trying to work out why Sam Winchester is so interesting to his new 'friend'.

--.

_Niagara Falls High School, November 2006_

Something was happening out in the hallway and Billy hoped like hell Carcetti wasn't going to teach the damn class, because that would seal it. He'd rather take fucking shop than that.

But no. Man, look who she had with her, bent down for his last minute pep talk outside the door.

_He looks afraid._

But then that changed, almost all at once, because the tall guy – the one who got wet first when it rained – straightened his shoulders, came to his full height which was just plain imposing, and nodded to the principal. Stupid cow-dumb Carcetti came in first, bustling in a Fortrel suit manufactured way before Billy was born. The pistachio trousers made a noise when she walked, a _scritch-scritch_ that made Billy think of how quickly material like that would combust, given a flame.

But flames weren't his thing, not really, too removed for true satisfaction. Couldn't see what was being destroyed unless you were on fire, too. Billy preferred his pleasures more separate and closer. Visceral, in his hands.

_They're going to eat him alive_, was what Carcetti thought and Billy eased back, not smiling, not welcoming, just staring at his fingernails fringed with a tatter of cuticle. Around him, the Law and Society class fidgeted, wondering what new dancing bear was being traipsed in for their pleasure.

Behind him sat the vapid Emily Dando, attractive only in the sense that she spent a vast amount of her parents' money on over-priced clothes. _Oh my god, I'd fuck him in a minute._

Christ, it was like being around a bunch of fucking cats in a back alley, all need and desire and sharp hunger and brains the size of walnuts. Sometimes, he'd have given anything to shut it out.

A gift. He should never look at it any other way, the man in his dreams had whispered, eyes glowing and strange. _A gift_.

"Class." Carcetti was short but not tiny and beside her the new teacher looked like a stupid cartoon character, like what Alice grew to when she drank that fucking potion. "Class," the principal had to repeat. She had a face that had fallen into joylessness sometime around her fiftieth birthday and had never recovered. "Class," and finally they were paying attention to her instead of just staring at the new guy, too old to be a student, too aware. Young enough to be straight out of teacher's college, wearing a tie. Who the fuck wore a tie except teachers and car salesmen?

"This is Mr. Winchester. He's replacing Mr. Wrightsman, who is on indefinite leave."

Indefinite, sure. Wrightsman was an idiot who'd thought CSI was the be-all and end-all in crime fighting, that you could profile criminals, like psychopaths came with a fucking checklist. No way to tell; profiling was a joke. Billy knew that, even if Wrightsman didn't. Fuckwad.

Billy turned his head slightly. Difficult to actually control this shit, and the class was loud. Picking up on super-sized Winchester's thoughts wouldn't be easy.

_Man, he's freakin' huge, isn't he?...Should still be in college, Carcetti must be desperate… like one of my brother's friends…-- him, at the basketball courts?...look at those eyes…betcha he knows his way around--…he looks nice…_

And Billy just sank lower in his chair. Impossible to sort out the raucous noise.

Carcetti patted the new teacher on the shoulder once before she left, and Mr. Winchester took off his sports coat and folded it across the back of the wooden chair behind the big desk, adjusted his tie like he wasn't used to wearing one.

"Okay," he said almost to himself, but Billy had started drawing on the soft cover of his notebook and wasn't looking to see what Winchester was doing. He was listening, though. He just wasn't hearing anything.

It was quiet enough that he registered the teacher's drawn breath, but no hesitation other than that. "I want you to take out a piece of paper and write down all the laws you've broken. What crimes you've committed. And don't write your name on it."

What the hell?

A whispering hush passed around the class like a wave at a stadium, and Billy really ought to have been hearing something, then but it was momentarily silent as a tomb. Then, like when you started the car and the radio was on full volume: _a fucking crime? I haven't…does a parking ticket count…what does he…oh my god oh my god oh my god…_

"Uh, Mr. Winchester?" Marcus, in the seat in front of Billy, voice still warbly even though Marcus was eighteen. "_Any_ crime?"

Winchester didn't move, stared hard at Marcus. "Did I say any crime?" But now with a slender smile.

"Any crime…we've committed?" Marcus snickered. "I haven't committed any crimes." Billy laughed, along with half the class.

Winchester shrugged. "We're all guilty of something." He glanced down at the binder he'd brought in with him. "Molly Atkinson," he called out. Molly was sitting right in the front and she raised her hand, a big goofy smile on her face. Dolt. "Andrew Azaria," and got another response. "Keep writing," he said looking straight up at Billy, who had been staring at the new teacher intently.

Caught, and Billy wasn't too sure what he saw there. Like this teacher was reading _him_. And _that_ wasn't normal. Billy opened his book and tore out a piece of paper. Tapped his pen for a minute as Winchester continued the roll call, then wrote: _Murdered mother_. He folded it in half and heard, "Willem Shuter?"

A laugh from the jocks in the corner. From stupid Emily Dando and her designer friends. "Willem?" They were at the 'S's, so there weren't too many students left to choose from. Had to be him or Brian Zozula. Winchester was staring right at Billy. Had him again. "Willem," Winchester repeated, steady and sure as a marksman.

Billy shook his head slightly. Fuck, the things his family forced him to. His father.

And he heard Emily clear her throat. _Why do you have to be such a fucking little freak, Billy? _ "That's Billy. Billy Shuter. Willem Shuter is his father."

Winchester wrote something down and set the binder aside. "All right. Pass them forward, let's see what upstanding young citizens we have here." Smiled as he said that like it was a joke. Soon he had all their papers in his hand; he kept smiling to himself as he sorted through them.

"Sir?" Molly asked.

Winchester glanced up through hair too long and raised his eyebrows. "Hm?"

"Are you going to tell our parents?" _Please don't, please, you don't look like you would, but…but…_

The teacher actually grinned like she was a retard. "God. No. Of course not. I'll be throwing these out in a minute." And stood up, started to walk between the rows of desks. "Guess what the number one offense is."

Hands went up. Someone guessed speeding. Another parking offenses. Wrong on both counts. Winchester sat on the heating radiators under the windows at the side of the class, and everyone turned to look at him, even Billy. "Shoplifting. Theft under a hundred. Great. Okay. Why would that be, do you think?"

And so it went. If he was alarmed by what Billy had written he didn't show it. Winchester only stayed by the window for a few minutes, then slowly paced back to the door. "Most serious crime. Any guesses?"

The room was quiet. Billy didn't put up his hand, waited for Marcus to say something stupid. It was inevitable. "Murder," Marcus called, right on cue. The class groaned.

Winchester was very still, didn't look at any of them, that mysterious half smile on his face. Then, he made an expression, conveying 'perhaps' with a shrug of eyebrow and mouth, the scrawled-on pages held lightly in his hands. "Let's say you're driving. Roads are slippery. I have five mentions here," and he held up the papers, "of speeding. So you're speeding. Wipe out. Kill your passenger. Is it murder?"

And that started a discussion. Billy leaned forward, watched Winchester carefully. What did this guy know about what Billy dreamed, about what Billy could do? Because this one was different. Here was an enigma: ally or enemy? Billy was expecting _help_; it had been promised. Help beyond Marcus's slavish, dogged servitude. Was this what help looked like?

"Thing is," Winchester interrupted the discussion. "Who isn't a criminal? Keep that in mind as you read chapter three of your textbooks, the section on Youth Offenders. Marcus, I'll expect you to give the class a definition of 'youth offender' in ten minutes."

He tore their sheets into halves, then quarters, and went to the back of the room to toss them into the garbage bin while the class opened textbooks and Billy just wished there was some drug to shut out the noise.

--

_Niagara Falls Public Library, November 2006 _

Tilting his chair on two legs, Dean craned his neck as far back as it would go and stared at the ceiling. He decided that the only reason he'd stayed this long was because the librarian in the local history section wasn't bad looking. And just as soon as he thought that, she passed through the double doors to the back section and an older guy came out, one with a fuzzy cardigan and hair like a dying dandelion and a dyspeptic expression on his face. The pert little blonde had been a carrot: Read two paragraphs, look up and watch her for a minute. Read two more paragraphs. Look up. Flirt. Read two more paragraphs.

This wooly professor was going to offer no incentives. Shit, what was Dean going to do now? Read two paragraphs, pick a fight with Prof Lint?

Dean shut the land register binder harder than he needed to and Prof Lint looked up, gravely considered Dean through black-rimmed glasses that Austin Powers had probably misplaced. Throwing a few punches this guy's way didn't sound so ridiculous. Dean stared at the ceiling again, wondered how far he could lean back in the chair before he overbalanced altogether and smashed against the terrazzo floor. If he was lucky, maybe he'd knock himself unconscious.

The Niagara Falls Public Library didn't have a cafeteria but it was right downtown; Dean could easily grab lunch somewhere, but he had the sneaking suspicion that if he left this building, he probably wasn't coming back, and he had only clocked about two hours worth of research this morning.

No mysterious events during the high school's construction. No violent student deaths other than the usual car accidents, no sign of demonic activity. No freak lightning storms or hail or apocalyptic summer snow. Livestock fat and jovial, remarkably intact.

Given what he knew about the Falls, he briefly considered going through the Daredevil archives just to see if they'd missed anything last time, something demonic.

Except he didn't want to. He knew how much he didn't want to do that, start digging around in the Daredevil records. Dean had served time in this library; the collection was familiar as an old argument. He knew where to look and he knew just as surely that he _couldn't_, that there were dark crevasses into which he didn't want to shine a flashlight.

_See, Dad?_ he thought. _I don't know why Sam dragged my sorry ass up here, because goddamn it if you and I didn't fuck this one up beyond all repair. _

Dad had always thought there'd been a demon. And there hadn't been and now Sam said there was and what if Dean had missed something then? _Dad, what if I missed something? _The lights were suddenly too bright and Dean's eyes itched something terrible from the dust and strain and just being tired and sore all over.

He reached into the canvas bag resting against the leg of his chair, found the thick journal with papers stuffed into it like a pastrami on rye at a kosher deli. Thumped it down on the study cubicle's desktop, didn't care if he drew the ire of Prof Lint – _bring it on, grandpa_ – but couldn't open it. He stared at it, looking at the scarred cover, the mismatched sheets of paper escaping the sides. His hand hovered over it, withdrew, almost making it to his lap. Then he unsnapped the clasp and wrenched it open all in one motion.

He flipped through to the demon section like he hadn't done this a million times over. Demon, demon, demon. A big fucking section. And Dean didn't really care about demons, not really. He cared about capital-H Hell, and he cared about…fuck, rubbed his eyes with the heels of both hands, just wanted so bad to not be alone with this, to have been left alone with this.

_Goddamn you, Dad. It wasn't supposed to be this way._ And it was, it was this way and it was his. _If you knew where he was now…_

This is why he should never set foot in a library alone. Too quiet, too much time, just thinking, words blurring on the page, nothing to stop…

_Why the fuck can't Sammy do this? He likes this research crap._

_Because Sam is in the classroom getting all manner of shit thrown his way by the little assholes he's teaching, that's why, Winchester._

That was supposed to cheer him up, Dean realized. He knew that because he _wasn't_ cheered up, because the thought of Sam in the classroom, of Sam having lunch right now in the staff room, talking up the other teachers in that friendly aw-shucks way, finishing his first week of a real fucking job – none of this was making Dean feel any better.

He couldn't identify what it _was_ making him feel. _I don't have to know_, he thought, standing and stretching, feeling all the vertebrae suddenly click into place like one of those articulated toy wooden snakes. _It doesn't matter_. Pulled his chin over one shoulder with a loud crack, shook his shoulders out, didn't care that Prof Lint was scowling.

Every instinct was telling him to _move, move, move_.

That was close to _over, over, over_ and the pull was so strong and he thought about all those negative ions that were supposed to make you horny – where the hell had he heard that before? – and had only ever had made him feel like letting go. And that was the one thing he wasn't about to do. Couldn't do, had promised.

_That's it, Winchester, you're done_.

He gathered up John's journal and the scribbles he'd made, which consisted largely of dates with little 'x's beside them signifying no recognizable patterns. He'd checked the local papers twenty-two years prior. Of course he had. Had checked for fires, had checked for six-month old babies, because he knew, didn't he, he knew what to look for. And it wasn't there.

He slung the bag's strap across his chest, not scanning the counter for the blonde mostly because he just didn't care, and started down the stairs.

The library's designers had employed a pitiless style of architecture that conveyed sterility and brutality and that had always reminded Dean of Eastern Bloc apartment buildings in cold war spy movies. The risers on the stairs were of eye-pleasing yet ergonomically difficult proportions and Dean found himself skipping a stair or two, off balance. Off-kilter, everything wrong, just him and how he was here. He stopped on the landing between mezzanine and main, collecting himself like loose change left on a countertop.

His phone rang. He let it go for three rings, staring at the white-on-white aggregate marble between his boots. _Damn, get your shit together, Winchester._ Slid the phone open, turning to rest a shoulder against the combed concrete wall. "Hello?" not even checking who it was.

"Dean?" And it was Sam. Dean closed his eyes, just finding balance for a second.

"Yeah," he returned, opening his eyes and pushing off against the wall, trotting down the stairs at a more even pace. _Who else would it be, Sam?_

"Where are you?" Fuck, now he'd worried him. Seemed he couldn't breathe without Sam getting worked up.

"Library," like that was usual. "Doing some background checks." Because he wasn't going to call it research, what he was doing.

"Huh," Sam grunted. Dean could hear the murmur of voices in the background. "I've only got a few minutes before the afternoon classes start. But we're invited to Elise's place for dinner tonight." Said it straight, without embellishment or warning.

And Dean had no defense against the hopefulness in Sam's voice.

"Dean?" Sam repeated when Dean said nothing.

Dean rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers, needing some food, some coffee, anything to jumpstart his engine. "Sure. Great. Sounds good. I'll meet you there. Give me the address."

He heard Sam, in that other life, repeat the question maybe over his shoulder, or maybe across a big table and the return of a female voice, and laughter. More indecipherable talk and Sam was back. He sounded so sure and so…_normal_ that Dean had a sudden sensation of being out of his own body, of having been transported. The opposite of déjà vu, an awareness of being in the very moment of never having been.

Sam shot the address at him and Dean missed it completely, blew past him like a hard grounder at first. If he looked over his shoulder, he'd see that address disappearing fast up the stairs to the mezzanine. "Let me get a pen," as he stood unmoving and penless. Sam gave the address more slowly as Dean just stood, wondering where the hell his life had gone.

"Dean, you're taking this down, right? You'll be there?"

Sam had worn a tie all week, Dean thought, a costume. And young kids were calling him Mr. Winchester and he was sitting in a staff room and having coffee breaks and getting dinner invitations. _This is what he wanted, all along_.

"Yeah, I'll be there."

It might be true. He _meant_ it. But what was wanted sometimes out-dazzled what was true, and Dean knew it. To his regret, he _knew_ that.

--

_Robert Moses State Parkway, Niagara Falls, December, 2000_

Sometimes, Sam wondered if his dad was psychic.

Eerie how he knew things, because Sam had reason to celebrate, reason to get the hell out of that goddamn apartment, and dammit if that wasn't what Dad was suggesting. But Sam was pretty sure that John didn't know anything about Sam taking the SATs that afternoon, didn't know about how Sam had sat down at the desk, paper in front of him, thick booklet like a death sentence to all of those other kids, but for Sam as exciting as an airplane ticket to some sweet foreign location. He could almost smell hot salt beach and coconut oil.

The scores wouldn't be out for a couple of weeks at least, but Sam didn't need the scores; Sam _knew_.

Come home, saying he'd been at the library for the day, that lying unquestioned, unprobed, and John had suggested, out of the blue, that they grab some burgers down at the Swan and Dean had made some lame joke about how Dad must be sick of Dean's wondrous ways with canned meat. John had smiled and Sam could see years melt from his face, had briefly touched Dean on the shoulder with two fingers and Sam noticed how Dean's posture had relaxed with it, easy as a cat stretched lazy in a pool of sunlight.

Even if neither of them knew, it was like they'd picked up on Sam's euphoria, sensed that things had changed, a window opened to a stuffy room. Sam had aced the exam, had sailed out the gymnasium – athletics given over to academics on this Saturday – and met Toad's equally shining stare and known that this was what he was meant for.

The Winchesters didn't go out for dinner often, not when they weren't on the road, anyway, but they'd been in the Falls long enough to grow tired of scraping together meals out of cans and boxes, to miss the call of the diner. Sam recognized the signs; Dad was getting restless.

Over the last month, John had been stymied by the Falls ghosts and when he had received a call about some poltergeist in the Buffalo area, he'd taken off like a shot, and that had occupied him for a week or so. It seemed they were sticking around Niagara Falls for a while longer, probably till after Christmas. Sam didn't exactly know what he'd do when his dad announced they were done here, but that was still at least a month off, and he didn't have to worry about it tonight.

The Swan was in the downtown core, such as it was, and John took the Robert Moses State Parkway along the river. At night you could see the lights of the Falls gearing up for Christmas, the Skylon Tower on the Canadian side all lit up with colored lights. The parkway took them fairly close to the Falls before John would need to make the turn-off. Sam hadn't been down to the Falls since the first week they'd been here, didn't really want to, had been distracted by other things.

But he'd been thinking about them. Ever since seeing that photo in the Daredevil Gallery, he'd been thinking. And that had led him back to the public library.

"Dad," he called from the back seat, always the back seat, even though his legs were way longer than Dean's now and it was cramped unless he sat sideways, "you know that they shut down the Falls in 1969, right?"

John reached over, turned down the radio, his arm coming up to rest against the top of Dean's seat so he could look over into the back. Sam came forward, trying to abandon the backseat without actually crawling over like he used to do on long drives when he was a little kid. "What do you mean?" John rumbled, voice neutral.

Sam noticed that Dean pulled away a little, either to give Sam room to enter the conversation, or maybe because he didn't like the subject, one of the two, but Sam couldn't decide. Besides, he was feeling sure today, was on top of things. If he could ace the SATs, surely he could convince John Winchester of a speculative theory.

"I saw a picture of the American Falls in '69. They diverted the water to the Horseshoe Falls so they could do some conservation work on the American side. So," and he could tell John was listening, "so, what if they found something? Doesn't that date correspond with the increase in jumpers?"

"What would they have found, son?" John asked, eyes back on the road, but attentive.

Sam's brow scrunched up. "I was thinking about the legend of the Maid of the Mist…"

And John made a funny noise, somewhere between a chuckle and snort. Huddled against the window, Dean was silent. "That legend was invented for tourists, Sam." Firm. "You let me 'n Dean figure this one out."

Something about his dismissive conviction rattled Sam's bars. "C'mon, Dad. You investigate a lot of things that are based in fairy tales and myths and legends. This isn't so far fetched. What about the Jenny Greenteeth in Vermont last year? Or the Norwegian troll in Pequot Lakes?"

Dad sighed, which usually meant he had made up his mind and was only trying to figure out the best way to break the news to Sam about whatever he'd decided. No argument. "I already went down that path, Sam. McGreevy did too. We're dealing with _ghosts_, and something's organizing them. They're not native spirits…"

Sam interrupted, not completely unaware how much his father hated to be interrupted. "No, Dean and I are pretty sure that they're the ghosts of daredevils. But I think it's a kind of sacrifice, right? And what they want to-"

John's turn to interrupt, which was more of an inalienable right than the provocation Sam offered. "You've been coming up with theories?" and he glanced at Dean, who hunched even further against the window.

Sam needed to make this fast, because John was now shutting down, closing doors like a vendor at the end of a busy day and Sam knew he was right about this. "Yeah, we were looking at a photo of the dry Falls, and Dean was explaining about how all these guys had gone over – you should have seen their barrels, _something_ supernatural must have gotten into them – and if the workers in '69 disturbed something big under there, like maybe the Snake-"

But the conversation, which had been between John and Sam, was suddenly over, and John was now openly glaring at Dean. "Did you take him down there?" John demanded.

_Goddamn him_, Sam thought. It was one thing for Sam to decide he didn't want to be part of a hunt, quite another for Dad to keep him out of it. More to the point: for Dad to tell _Dean_ to keep him out of it.

And for Dean, obviously, to involve him anyway.

"God, no," Sam interceded. Dodgeball, and Dad had the ball, as always. _Shit_. "No, we were just talking-"

And then Dean straightened up, maybe trying to physically will himself out of the hot seat, or maybe looking for anything to sidetrack John, but he actually managed to offer a legitimate distraction. His attention was out the window and he asked, "What's going on down there?"

The world, which had shrunk to the interior of the Impala, suddenly was upon them again, because to their left, down by the steaming psychedelic mist of the Falls, a half dozen cop cars and an ambulance gathered, lights cutting into the falling night. The lights looked so small against the lights on the Falls, but Sam had always found police flashers more ominous than any other lightshow he could imagine – fireworks, bonfires, lightning. They made the pit of his stomach drop like he was on a fairground ride.

John slowed, took the turn-off toward the park. He pulled the Impala to a full stop in an upper level parking lot, turned in his seat so he could stare at both his boys. Sam couldn't see John's face but he heard the steel in his voice. He could well imagine the expression on his face: hard, concentrated, weary as old iron.

"You two stay here. I'll go down and see what's going on. Find the Parks Services badge I've got in there, Dean," and gestured to the glove box as he opened the door with the other hand and went to the trunk.

Dean didn't do it, and Sam could make out his brother's face because John's door was open and the dome light on. An enduring expression of resigned determination, a flat glare of anger directed at Sam like a slap, then he was out the door, following John to the trunk. Neither man had shut their door and the cold air slashed through the car like a blade.

Sam sighed and collapsed against the backseat, pulled his knapsack beside him. While he unzipped it, pawing around for _Lord of the Flies_, which was on the exam at the end of next week, he heard his father rattling around the supplies in the back, the symmetry of their actions not unmarked by Sam.

"Dad, I'm coming with you." Dean voiced was raised, but only because the noise of the Falls was so loud.

"No, you're not. You've done enough for one night." Shit, yeah, so maybe Sam had deserved Dean's deathstare. "Stay here and make sure Sam doesn't go anywhere."

"I'm not his babysitter!" and that was noticeably controlled, a real attempt to keep his voice even. But he was mad, and his deep voice carried, despite the endless rush of water. Sam couldn't hear anything beyond that, just the liquid rush. No voices. He didn't know what Dean had heard but it wasn't this.

"Tonight? Yeah, you are, Dean. Do a better job of it this time." Factual, harsh. Typical.

A pause, and Dean said something else that Sam didn't catch and to which John barked 'no', but Sam could hear his dad's voice slip, like a car laboring in a gear too high for the job. Dean never argued with John, not like Sam did. Dean had more covert ways of disagreeing. Usually, if he was going to be contrary, Dean just pretended that John had told him whatever it was he wanted to hear. So it didn't surprise Sam when Dean leaned into the car and looked at Sam studying in the back, but made no move to join him.

"Give me your pack," and held out his hand.

Sam sat still for a moment, not looking up from the book but not reading either. "Thanks for backing me up with the dry Falls thing." Finding his anger suddenly. Not for Dean, not really, just non-specific anger. Sam had fucking blown everyone in the room away today, had a ticket to ride and none of it mattered. They were supposed to be going out for dinner and he was hungry and this was _bullshit_. Dad didn't have a fucking clue what he was doing.

Dean didn't say anything, just cocked his head to one side, the yellow dome light making him look anemic. Maybe hearing stuff Sam couldn't, Sam thought with a thin shiv of guilt.

Dean reached all the way over and hauled up the knap sack. "Damn," he said. "What the fuck you got in here? Rocks?"

Sam grabbed it back. "You didn't say you wanted it empty," and took out several textbooks and a binder. "Here." He didn't say 'be careful'. It had been a long time since he'd said anything like that to either of them.

Dean took the pack, still didn't shut the door and Sam pulled up the zipper of his coat all the way, books in disarray on the seat beside him.

"Dean-" Dad's low warning.

"It's not a problem. Sam'll stay put."

The empty place the books had left was replaced with guns and knives and holy water and rock salt.

John didn't say anything in return, which was sign enough. Sam opened his novel in irritation. _Why don't you tell him about the dry Falls, Dean? Maybe he'll listen to you, because you're a hunter and I'm just a fucking useless kid._ And he knew he was more than that, but it was hard to hear over the slamming car doors and the sirens and the Falls.

--

_Deveaux neighborhood, Niagara Falls, November 2006 _

Elise's massive house was tucked back from the curb on a side street between Deveaux Woods and Devils Hole and how Dean could fuck up the directions was beyond Sam. The house had too many bedrooms and a sweet sad air as though the last mouthful of birthday cake was just fading away on the tongue.

Sam had drained his beer and was holding the empty bottle so he had something to do with his hands. Wordlessly, Elise gave him another from the fridge. He leaned against the marble countertop in her kitchen watching her make spaghetti, hoping he was standing close enough but not too close, the talk inevitably veering from now to then and back. If Dean's absence hadn't occupied the room like a third person, Sam would have said he was having a good time.

She shrugged at his suggestion that they just go ahead and eat, put an assortment of olives and a baguette on the countertop next to him. No problem, she said, and really seemed to mean it. No problem, a small thing, she wasn't worried about it. She turned down the sauce and kept the pasta water on low boil, said they could sit in the living room, but they didn't move.

The kitchen was warm with brick and steam and Sam didn't feel like going anywhere.

He'd stayed late after class going over his notes from the week, trying to figure out how not to repeat mistakes and how to best get across some fairly abstract ideas about justice. Then he'd knocked on Elise's door with an array of questions: Could he show the students some scenes from _Natural Born Killers_? Would the school have a problem if he set up a mock jury selection using an actual recent murder case? Could he bring in an ex-offender to talk to the class about incarceration?

Elise had laughed that big laugh and Sam had realized he was pushing things, but it made sense to him, what he was asking. Books were dry; people were real. Experiences were real. Make them do something, not read something. She had nodded, said she'd fly it past Ms. Carcetti. From what little interaction Sam had had with the principal, she wasn't exactly going to be jumping for joy. Carcetti hadn't changed much from when Sam had been a student.

Still, he had some difficult kids in the class, even Carcetti had admitted it. Sam was banking that the administration would be willing to take some chances. Step one was to fly it past Elise, see what she thought. They'd work on step two together.

As he'd sat in her office, noticing the framed photo of a small blonde child, it had felt like yesterday and it had felt like a million years ago. Nothing had changed, and everything had. He'd smiled at her, and wondered if she'd been thinking the same thing.

And Billy Shuter? What was his story? Elise had shaken her head, told him the file was a thick one. He'd asked about the mother, and Elise had shrugged. Dead, but that's all she knew. Father was a successful real estate agent, had two younger half-sisters, one in school here, no trouble from them. But Billy? One of the difficult kids, too weird to be bullied, too smart to get caught _being_ a bully.

Sam still didn't know what to make of the distant, aloof kid with the too-long unwashed hair and the strange restrictive clothing that made you uncomfortable just looking at him. The point of wearing it, of course. The other kids didn't like him, and that was enough to pique Sam's interest.

And the stare, which was like a dead thing.

In the kitchen, pot handles angled away from the edge as though a child still lived here, Elise picked an olive from the dish and dropped it in her mouth like she was feeding a parking meter. She held it there, turning it over, staring at Sam with interest.

"You don't like olives." More a statement than a question, not worried, just watching. "Cheese? I know," and she pulled out a bag of tortilla chips from the cupboard above the stove, the thin crisp kind Sam liked, reminding him of California. In a good way. Being here with her made him realize that it was possible to remember things in a good way.

Sam chewed thoughtfully, not quite sure what was happening, what doors were opening. "I should call Dean, find out where he's at."

That wasn't what he'd been planning to say when he opened his mouth, but Elise nodded to the wall phone by the archway, and Sam dialed.

Dean didn't pick up. Sam left a message, was used to leaving messages, but alarm bells were going off now and he resisted the urge to turn on the television news, see if Dean was the top story.

"Maybe he forgot to charge his phone?" Elise suggested, mouth curling at one corner in a wry apologetic smile. "You're worried about him."

Sam shrugged, returned to his post by the stove, took another swig of the bottled beer, choosing his words with care. "Our dad. He...Dean didn't take his death very well. Won't really talk about it."

Elise rested her elbows against the counter next to Sam, a space between them about the width of a loaf of bread. The top of her head was just below his shoulder. She smelled of cut onions and olive oil and that was okay, somehow. "Sometimes people can't, you know?" And she looked up at him, had to tilt her head back to do it, blue eyes dark in the half-light of the halogen bulbs under the cupboards, shining onto the countertop like Christmas candles. "In his own time. Sometimes you can't talk to the people closest to you, you know?"

He felt like pushing it then, knew she'd answer, would tell him anything he liked. She wasn't his teacher, wasn't his muse or mentor, was a friend, was really so much more and it felt like someone had taken Sam's internal organs, dropped them in a Mixmaster and turned the dial way past 'stir', all the way to 'whip'.

And that would be his phone ringing in the pocket of his coat, which was draped over the newel post at the bottom of the staircase. They looked at each other for a long moment, then Sam shifted himself, moved to the hallway to pick up the phone before the third ring.

--

_Luna Island, Niagara Falls NY, November 2006_

This was probably a bad idea, he told himself for maybe the hundredth time. Parked the Impala, hopped the fence, avoided the rangers stationed on Goat Island, and took the mist and ice-slicked staircase over to Luna Island. _Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea_. The small jut of land separated the Bridal Veil Falls from the American Falls like an inquisitive finger through birthday cake icing. They'd closed the island for a few years between the mid-fifties until after the conservation work in 1969, and Dean had always felt that the little nub of land could slip over the edge at any time.

Somehow, the thought didn't bother him tonight.

It was loud. He had forgotten how goddamn loud the fucking place was, but without the incessant burr of ghost voices, it was only white noise and you got used to it. He didn't have to worry about being quiet, but better if the rangers didn't spot him because though he made light of it with Sam, his name punched into the wrong database would be the end of his hunting career.

And that thought didn't bother him much, either.

The cold was something, though, because it was windy out here and walking around on the little island – less than an acre of rock and scrub trees, surprisingly flimsy railings and slick walkway – was like taking a hike across an arctic glacier. Slippery too, Dean thought, losing his feet and making a ridiculous windmilling motion before finding his balance again. He mistrusted his tread, so he kept his hands out of his pockets, just in case he came crashing down. _Need to break my fall_, and that thought made something inside him hurt badly.

It was easy to find your way around; shit, the place was lit up for the season already and the Canadian Vegas across the water was close enough to touch. Dean went to the very northeast edge of the island, close to where the water dropped precipitously off the table like a fall of linen in a fancy restaurant. He took one jump onto the bottom railing of the fence so the top rail rested against his thighs and leaned over for a better look.

Did it all at once without thinking, had always been like that, jabbing his finger into light sockets to find out if they worked. Sticking his head out windows and over cliffs, just to see what was there.

Talus. He knew that word now. It had been engraved in his memory like a lot of things learned in this town. The water rushed by, only ten percent of the river fell here, still deadly as hell. The rocks at the bottom of these particular falls meant that no one tried their barrels here. The Cauldron of the Horseshoe Falls was more forgiving. Going over here was suicide, nothing more.

Unless you had a reason. It wasn't suicide, then. It was sacrifice.

And he jumped back down to the walkway, took a few steps away, all churned up inside like the water below, had his phone out and turned back on before he'd thought it through, because Sam might figure out where he was. It was loud, after all.

Going to a third ring and maybe he'd get Sam's voice mail. That would be all right, maybe, he could live with that, was already lying to himself when he heard, just barely, if he blotted out the sound from his other ear and concentrated, Sam's voice.

"Hey," Dean said, and had no idea what came after that.

"Where are you?" It was too loud to catch Sam's tone, but Dean already knew it would be a combination of worried and pissed.

"Uh, don't think I'm gonna make it tonight, Sam. Think you can find your way back to the motel?" Shit, that wasn't going to worry Sam in the slightest, was it?

Dean thought the silence that followed was probably one of Sam's deliberate pauses before letting fly. He didn't hear anything anyway. "Dean?" strangled through the ether and Dean knew that he wasn't allaying any of Sam's fears tonight and he wanted so desperately to be left alone. That's what he kept telling himself. _Back off, Sam, give me some room. No questions_.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, this is a shit connection. Just." Took another breath, wished…he could hear better, wished that he wasn't on the phone, wished they were just driving and it was warm and it was years ago and they were all there. Together and as whole as they could be. Instead of this. "I'm gonna grab a beer at the local, play a round of darts. You know. Third wheel. I won't wait up for you." Tried for a laugh with that last one, and got most of the way there.

Sam might have sighed, or swallowed, or made some other disapproving sound, but Dean couldn't hear it and he was thankful. Finally, Sam said, "Well, okay, but I'm going to eat all your spaghetti, you know."

"Yeah, sorry. Apologize for me, okay? Just not…you know, in the mood." If Sam said something in response to that, Dean didn't hear it. Instead, already feeling like he was speaking with thin air, he said, "Have fun." He turned off the phone again and slid it back into his pocket.

The ghosts were at rest, he knew that, but he could still hear them.

_How'm I supposed to live with that?_ That same question, over and over. _Over, over, over_, and Dean shook his head hard like water was stuck inside some internal canal. Damn, coming down here was a bad idea. One hundred and one times now. So many things he'd been left to live with. _Fuck you, Dad. Fuck you._

The anger was hot like it was new, recently kindled. It wasn't fresh, though; it was a familiar companion, had sustained him for these weeks and weeks since John had died. Since John had traded his life for Dean's and left him with this and _fuck you, Dad_. _Did you ever once wonder what this would do to me?_ That was unfair and he knew it. But it was better than the clawing weariness, anything was better than that, even this.

A drink. He needed a drink, not to cheer himself up, not to numb the pain, not any of those things. To stoke the fire, because the night was dark and cold and there were ghosts.

So he skirted around the ranger station, walked back across the narrow pedestrian bridge. He climbed over the park fence and drove the Impala to the motel and walked to a bar. Though he hadn't planned the rest of his evening beyond the first drink, he knew enough to leave the Impala. He'd taken his rage out against the car once already and twice would probably break him in some way he could only vaguely sense but could never imagine.

Dean Winchester had some experience in getting falling down drunk. All of it went to good use tonight. He didn't talk to anyone in the bar, not the pair of college girls from over the border here on a whim, not the guy who attempted to hustle some pool. Hell, he barely spoke to the bartender, only lifted his fingers as though he was playing blackjack, hit me. Again. One more. Another.

And there was nothing to break his fall, not this time.

--

If asked, Sam wouldn't have been able to say if the spaghetti was good or not; he didn't remember the spaghetti. He must have eaten it, because he'd helped to clear the table, and his plate was empty. He might have even had seconds. He'd had some wine in addition to the beer, declined a coffee.

Laughed about some students they shared, about the inefficiencies of the front office, made fun of the head of business studies, who kept calling Sam 'Wesson'.

"It must be hard, coming back," she said finally, coffee mug resting against her bottom lip, both sitting on the forties-style leather sofa in the living room, lamp dim, dishwasher chugging away in the background.

It was, but maybe not for the reasons she thought. He couldn't go into the reasons of course, but he was used to that. He had practice, had become an expert at sealing boxes and putting them in deep storage. Though he was very good at it, he'd never liked lying, not to people that mattered.

So he didn't lie, but he didn't say anything she didn't already know. "Yeah. I…didn't speak to my family for a long time. After."

She didn't look away and he remembered that about her, from a long time ago. She didn't shy away from strong emotions, not anger or fear or hurt. He felt like she had him under one of those airport X-ray machines, all his quirks and weirdness exposed in pretty pastel shades, abstract and glowing. All the guts of him made beautiful.

He knew how to move it along from this topic. "Harder for you, being here." Trying to draw parallel lines, to make connections; he said it to get the spotlight off himself, of course, but also so she'd know they were alike. A soft hurt blossomed in her eyes and Sam realized that these were words that could draw blood. He had not intended that.

She shook her head as though she could hear his thoughts. "No," but said it so quietly he had to reach for it. "I…I'm getting – not used to it, but, you know. I get by. Slowly." And the saddest smile flitted near the corner of her mouth. "It's hard, sometimes, being around all the kids. Kinda lost my zest for it. I can't tell you how good it is, hearing you talk about the teaching, Sam."

Okay, he hadn't been expecting that, hadn't expected his teaching to be a gift to anyone. One look at her and he had to amend that: The teaching wasn't the gift. Sam was the gift, in and of himself.

He had one elbow on the back of the sofa, one leg bent up on the seat, back resting against the armrest and a cushion with birds embroidered on it. He was relaxed and she was full of surprises and that hit him at an oblique angle, jostling something loose. The warmth of an actual home was familiar in an abstract and longed-for way and maybe Sam could make it all okay if he could just find a stable spot in the sea of crap that was shifting around him.

Not just him. _Them_. Sam was keeping his head above water, but Dean? Dean was just drowning, plain and simple.

Sam wasn't responsible for him and he was. How many different ways could Sam say _Tell me what's going on?_ His brother had already made a short stop at denial, but even Dean couldn't disguise the fact that there was no parachute attached to his…_oh fuck_. He'd phoned from the Falls.

And Sam got up suddenly, crossed the room to the hallway, grabbed his phone from his coat pocket, and jammed in the number before he even considered how crazed it looked. Past denial, Dean was at the throwing punches stage of grief. What came after that?

As he waited for his brother to pick up, he glanced over his shoulder at Elise, but she was calm. Concerned. Ringing and ringing and finally, blurred with sleep or drink, hard to tell with only one word: "Yeah."

"Hey, it's me." The relief was massive and encompassing, sluiced through him like Gatorade courtside. "Just checking in."

"Okay, man." And Dean hung up unquestioningly, slid back into whatever coma Sam had roused him from.

Didn't matter. Dean didn't sound like he was at a bar or a police station. And he wasn't at the Falls, not anymore. It had sounded like _bed_ and Sam tried not to feel foolish as he put the phone back. He was standing already and so was she and the door was right there.

"He's okay?"

Sam nodded. "He can handle himself." He almost meant it. "It's late. I should get going."

"Well," and nodded back. "It's been good catching up."

Is that what this was? But he saw her then like she had just walked into the Novels 12 classroom, knowing he was the one who had stood up. That look on her face. _Saw him_.

Saw him and liked what she saw, but it had changed somehow, from then to now and was not going back again. It had changed, and then Sam moved one shoulder like he was sliding to the side of someone in a narrow passage and it was some kind of signal that they both felt in their bones.

She was so tiny and it surprised him how little there was of her as he brushed one hand down her spine and pulled her into his lean length, his arms so long he thought he could maybe wrap them around her twice. _Together_, and this was what he had wanted since forever, it seemed. Denial and denial and denial was accomplishing nothing, not for anyone, least of all Sam.

Tongue and lips and teeth and his hand on the small of her back and under her silk sweater moving, trying to figure out what was needed. It was too much and it was not enough.

They both drew away breathless at the same moment, eyes on each other in the dark hallway. Sam looked away first, scared shitless.

Scared of what he had started, scared of what he knew he wanted to finish. No one had ever accused Sam of not knowing what he wanted.

"I'll call you a cab," Elise said quietly, wiping a hand across her mouth and he caught the hand as it came down, just for a moment.

"Okay," he agreed.

--

_Niagara Falls High School, December, 2000_

_Ho fucking ho,_ Sam thought, noticing that someone had tagged his locker in black marker, spelling out one of the few profanities that still earned Dean a smack from their dad. Ignoring it, he slid the pack from his shoulders, first period just about to start, the school thick with the moist smell of melted snow and sweat. Of toilet and gum and the fetid odor of unwashed boys.

The elation of the SATs hadn't quite worn off; Sam was looking forward to seeing Ms. Simon later on this afternoon, telling her how he'd done. The easily-imagined look on her face: I told you so. Sam was smart in more ways than one. She was married and having a baby and the pedestal was too high, even for a tall boy. A daydream, a mirage less real than the glossy college brochures and application forms. Safe.

His pack weighed a ton and he dropped it to the floor, noticed that the zipper was coming away from the seam. Goddamn Dean, crawling around Goat Island with the pack crammed too full with useless things that didn't put a dent in those resilient fucking ghosts.

He wondered if their father could hear the ghosts as clearly as Dean. Dean had come back to the Impala before John, his face drawn and pale, and Sam hadn't asked any questions. Dean had gone to the trunk, emptied the pack and tossed it in the back wordlessly. When John had returned a half hour after that, he'd only said that there'd been another jumper and that their burgers were going to get cold.

The dinner had been strained, given that Dean still angry with Sam and probably with himself and that John's mind was occupied with ghosts.

_Ho fucking ho._

Toad Christiansen had a way of letting you know he was there without saying anything. Sam wasn't quite sure how he did it; like he occupied enough space that the air pressure around you got pushed around. Today, though, Toad wasn't waiting for Sam to notice him, he came right around as Sam dialed pi on his lock, eyes glowing.

"Man, that was sweet on Saturday. What'd your dad say?" Smiled generously, all lit up like Christmas. "My mom made this big deal," and he gesticulated with both arms, almost too nonplussed to actually comprehend the extent of his mother's delight, "she called over my aunt and her kids and we ordered Chinese." He shook his head. "It was _great_."

Sam took off his coat and mashed it into the locker, students hurrying around him, but his next class was just down the hall, so he had time. He bent down to the pack at his feet, tugged the zipper, tried to get it to open without doing more damage.

He hadn't really looked at the books he'd brought home this weekend, other than in the car on Saturday – Sunday had been occupied with a long running battle with Dad that involved a few slamming doors from both parties and enough animosity that Dean had finally hauled Sam out and they'd gone to a matinee.

They hadn't done that in a long time, and Sam had almost told Dean about the SATs, re-emerging into bright winter sunshine, all pleasantly confused by the transition. But Dean had launched into an unlikely tale about how Dad had let him take down a re-animated corpse last summer – and Sam knew perfectly well Dean was making up the whole thing, complete with maggots and bloat – and the moment had passed.

"You know," Toad said, "we should celebrate. I asked my mom, she said that maybe we could all go over to Ontario next weekend, head up Clifton Hill, check out one of the Haunted Houses or the indoor mini-golf. Or Dazzleland. What about that?"

Sam thought he'd rather swallow battery acid than go to one of those Haunted Houses. Maybe if Dean went, because Dean would get why it was so pathetic, would make it funny. Toad? The difference between fun and funny was lost on poor Toad; he had fun down pat, but funny was a whole other matter.

"Maybe," Sam said, knowing he'd never ask Dean. Dazzleland was a 'Family Fun Center' and he'd had his family fun there already, thanks very much. Besides, Toad would go on about the SATs and about college and that would be a fucking disaster. That was Sam's bridge to cross.

Luckily, there were more pressing matters, like class. He needed the Human Biology text for his lab so he tried to slide it out from the pack, but it caught on the broken zipper. Irritated that Dean could manage to wreck his backpack in under an hour, Sam pulled harder and the book flew out, something heavy caught between the pages. The textbook slid across the hard wet corridor, smacking against the boots of passing students, face down, collecting mud and snow and salt.

That wasn't the worst of it, though.

Because Sam saw what the heavy object was, what slid out from between _Chapter 16: Discovering the Mitochondria!_ and _Chapter_ _17: Polygenic Disease Inheritance_ like a flung bottle rocket.

It was a huge hunting knife and it spun in an arc through the rushing feet of students and landed right in front of the approaching football squad.

Sam knew his name by now, the linebacker. Damon Fraser. And Damon was staring down at his feet with an expression of mixed shock and sick pleasure.

Several things happened, one after the other, because a knife in a school wasn't a laughing matter. Damon asked, in a very loud voice, if Sam was going to go all Columbine on them and if he had a gun in the pack as well.

Sam didn't actually know if he had a gun in his pack, and some of that probably showed on his face. That kind of expression invited more intervention, and Sam found himself pushed up against the locker, hard, and was too shocked to do much about it.

Someone as big as Damon Fraser pushing someone as big as Sam Winchester into a metal locker made a fair bit of noise, especially as most of the students in the hallway were now gathered around with that frisson of fear and excitement that always accompanied a fight.

Except this wasn't a fight; this was a bear trap and Sam had fallen right in.

Students gawked in the hallway while Damon bellowed, 'search his bag! I bet he's got more!' and soon there were teachers involved. Sam held very still, eyes wildly searching for someone – anyone – who might make this stop, but dreading it all the same. Because there was only one way it stopped now.

Mr. Isbister's room was closest, and he came out with his bowtie and his fuzzy hair, stared at Sam in amazement, not quite believing the knife that Damon's teammate held up as proof.

His books were all over the hallway now. _Oh please, dear god, oh please, let there be nothing else. Oh, god, Dean, I am going to fucking kill you_…Ms. Carcetti was called and there seemed to be nothing but the knife in Sam's bag, and that was plenty bad enough.

Damon was sent to class; they were all sent to class. Show's over, everyone. Except Sam. The only place Sam was going was the office, where he was placed in a room by himself and this was exactly what a police holding cell felt like, was only one step removed. Shit, he was a guy who knew what police holding cells were like. Who the fuck was he trying to fool? Stanford, Yale, Harvard, Columbia. He knew exactly how this was going to look on his record.

He folded his arms on the tabletop, his head sinking into them, gutted. His pack had disappeared with Carcetti, along with the knife. Despite the fact that they hadn't cuffed him to the table, the door was open a crack and had a thin window in it anyway and people kept coming by, taking a look at him like he was the main attraction at the zoo. The office staff, one or two teachers. Then, a familiar voice in the office outside and Sam didn't want to look, kept his head down.

"Ms. Carcetti," low Southern accent reasonable, calm. "Ms. Carcetti. We know Sam. We know he's not-"

"There are rules, Ms. Simon. Very strict rules. Zero tolerance. You know what happened in Colorado. We can't have-" and their voices softed away into the fluorescent hum of the lighting as they must have moved into Carcetti's office.

Ten minutes later, both women came into the little room where Sam fretted, fingers worrying over each other, mind racing through every possible permutation of what might happen next, how he could explain this. There must be some way to –

He couldn't meet Ms. Simon's eyes and she took the chair opposite him and he managed to look at her hands folded softly on the table, engagement ring winking in the weird light. Everything welled up and Sam couldn't raise his eyes from the tabletop, even though he thought it might be important.

"Sam," Ms. Carcetti began. "Your father's on his way-"

Oh, fuck, just when he thought things couldn't get worse.

"-anything that you'd like to tell us before he gets here?"

Sam took a huge breath but had no idea what he was going to do with it, so he just kept it it close. It helped him look up though, that held breath. He concentrated on Carcetti, standing with her arms crossed between the light switch and the door. She didn't look near as pissed off as he'd thought she'd be. He shook his head, once.

"Sam," Ms. Simon began and Carcetti made a small negative sound that Ms. Simon ignored. "Sam."

Slowly, Sam turned his head to look at her, heart thudding, blood rushing to his skull and he knew he couldn't have hurt her worse if he'd stabbed her with that fucking knife. But that wasn't what he saw. Hell, he had no idea what her expression meant, but he soon couldn't see it because his eyes had filled and he needed to look away.

You tended to hear John Winchester before you saw him, if he wasn't looking to kill you. The fact that the door slammed outside in the main office and the words, "I'm John Winchester and I'd like to see my son," were so clear and so even ought to have given Sam some comfort.

If his dad was going to kill him, he wouldn't have been so loud.

Besides, if Sam guessed right, John would have his own way to play it and slow lingering torture was likely part of it. A quick death wasn't going to be his. Sam automatically straightened in his chair, full attention as Carcetti went out and brought his father into the room.

John stood quietly in the doorway, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, hands jammed in the pockets of his open winter coat, a contrite and open expression on his bearded face. His gaze rested momentarily on Ms. Simon, then swung to Sam. Their eyes locked and Sam knew his instructions: _Shut the hell up and let me handle this, Sam_.

"Ms. Carcetti tells me you brought a knife to school," he said. "Did I forget it in your pack?"

Sam shrugged. Used to be he was pretty good at lying, when it was a game he played with Dean. Groundskeepers, parking lot attendants, mall security, state troopers. Not now. He didn't like lying, not for his father. This wasn't really for his _father_, though, was it? "Must have," he muttered.

Ms. Carcetti had brought the knife in; it was a big deer-hunting blade, the kind that would easily cut open a dead deer, that could be used for butchering. Sam had seen Dean throw it into the back of a fleeing redcap once. The weight of it was just right for throwing; it was a well-balanced piece of precision craftsmanship that Dean had paid a small fortune for. He kept it sharp enough to shave with.

John nodded to it. "I know this knife Ms. Carcetti. This one belongs to me. I used Sam's pack this weekend when I went out hunting." And weirdly enough, that was fairly close to the truth.

Ms. Simon shifted her weight in the chair, tiny and nimble as a Bolshoi dancer, turned to face John. Suddenly, it occurred to Sam that the next words out of her mouth would be about the SATs and how well Sam was doing in school and how he'd applied to a half dozen good colleges. Dean's hunting knife wasn't the most dangerous thing in this room and Sam knew it.

"It's okay, Ms. Simon," Sam said, drawing her attention from his father. He hoped she knew what he was trying to tell her; she'd arranged the deferral of his SAT fee when he'd said that his father would never understand. _Please remember, Ms. Simon. Please_.

"Ms. Simon?" John smiled, voice warm and innocuous as porridge, and Sam would have rolled his eyes had it been anywhere else. "Sam talks about you all the time."

The floor wasn't opening up to swallow him whole, so Sam just had to sit there and listen to John's bullshit.

Ms. Simon didn't move, but Carcetti uncrossed her arms so she could hold her hands out to John as though she was petitioning for his reason. John had a way of turning tables, was sometimes so expert at it that Sam couldn't even see how it had been done. "We have rules, Mr. Winchester. I really can't bend them. Your son's facing expulsion, and I should be calling the police." But Carcetti's heart wasn't into it and maybe she was just thinking of the paperwork, or the panic that this would cause, but she was looking for a way out of this as much as anyone.

"I understand, Ms. Carcetti," John said, nodding seriously. "Of course. But," and he smiled again, displaying the deep grooves that Sam had inherited, the dark charm and the wistfulness that was worn like one of those dumb paper hats you got in a Christmas cracker. "The knife isn't Sam's. You have rules, I understand that. But Sam's a good kid."

First he'd heard of it, but okay, Dad. Sam leaned way back in his chair. He might as well not even have been in the room.

But it was working, he could see that.

In the end, John negotiated a three-week suspension and got Dean's knife back. That pissed Sam off no end, but he wasn't really in a position to say anything. In fact, the whole drive home was utterly silent, John not even turning on the radio in the new truck, eyes on the road, slow simmer behind the wheel.

Sam had exposed them, had waved over regular society and said, 'look here'. And that was one of those unforgivable sins. Sam had broken one rule by having a knife in the school, but he'd broken a far more serious law in doing so. The only thing that saved Sam an earful in the truck was the fact that John was saving most of his anger for Dean, who had borrowed the pack in the first place.

Much later that night, when all the shouting was over, Dad had gone out and Dean had fallen asleep in front of the TV while Sam lay in his bed. He stared at the ceiling, knowing he'd dodged a huge bullet, both in terms of the suspension and his covert college plans. It occurred to him that his father lived by absolute laws and that those laws were fucking crazy.

Exposure was unforgivable. Leaving was unforgivable. Loyalty and secrecy, those were the cardinal points, the north and south of John Winchester's fucked-up world.

_We don't have to live like this. Not me, and not Dean._

--

TBC


	5. Over the Wall

**Chapter Five/**Over the Wall

**Summary**: "Someone goes over Niagara in a barrel. You gonna jump in and try to save them?" – _Dean Winchester, Crossroad Blues._ Sam's making plans, and they don't include his father or hunting. They might not even include Dean. High school in two time periods.

**Rating: **Gen, PG-13: curses, cuss-words, expletives, and profanities. WIP, will be 10 chapters. Horror/drama

**Spoilers**: present-day action takes place between _Crossroad Blues_ up to _Croatoan_.

**Bounce in my step**: Canon characters are Kripke's. Words are nominally mine. Thanks to the betas, jmm0001 and Lemmypie. We argue and throw hissy fits and threaten to hold our breath till we turn purple and…oh wait. Sorry, that's just me.

**STF**: Niagara Falls High School, turn of the millennium – Sam is serving out a suspension because he unknowingly brought Dean's knife to school in a post-Columbine atmosphere of terror. John and Dean are spinning their wheels with the Falls daredevil ghosts and John's getting restless to pull up stakes. In the present day, Sam's friendship with his old teacher, Elise Simon, is taking on new and interesting dimensions. However, she also happens to be the bloody centerpiece in one of Sam's visions. Sam is enjoying teaching, except for the troublesome Billy Shuter, who can hear the thoughts of everyone around him – except Sam.

--

_Downtown Niagara Falls, December 27, 2000_

"Dean, just, _no_." Flat out, couldn't be more emphatic than that.

"Jesus, you're such an old woman." Dean pumped the accelerator to get some gas in the line, turned over the cold engine and it reluctantly engaged, an asthmatic stutter warming to a roar. The Impala had always been a bit cranky in northern temperatures. Sam waited for the heater to actually produce heat while Dean cajoled. "Seriously, my Christmas present to you."

"I should have known when you parked here. You're so predictable. Christmas present, my ass." Sam turned to him, pulled his hat down lower, which was hard with the ungainly gloves. At least his hands were warm. "I'm on probation, remember? Dad said the land records office and that was all." 

"Well, we've been there, they didn't have what Dad wanted, and now we're…here." His eyes strayed longingly to the neon progression of the words 'girls, girls, girls' marching across the storefront, the window plastered with a full-sized cutouts of scantily clad women wearing an assortment of ill-fitting elf outfits.

"I'm seventeen, Dean. I could probably pass for nineteen on the Canadian side, but twenty-one?"

Dean stared at him as though Sam had just told him he was a variety of marsupial. "You've got fake ID. For christ's sake…"

Sam wasn't going to say it. He wasn't going to say that Dad would hit the roof if he found out. Because that was only part of it. He didn't like strip clubs, never had, and Dean probably knew that Sam was profoundly uncomfortable around naked women in a way Dean never had been, not even once. In actual fact, it was the other guys in strip clubs that Sam found creepy, but he wasn't going to tell Dean that, either.

"Well, what are you going to do while I go in, then?" Grinned, maybe waiting for Sam to get all bitchy. Sighed, shook his head. "Oh, don't worry, I wouldn't leave you to freeze," and pulled the car away from the curb, ran a yellow light getting up to speed, turned onto a main street heading out of the downtown core.

Sam thought Dean was done with his momentary bright idea, one of his little covert rebellions against John's iron rules, but then his brother swung the Impala down an unplowed residential street, and it fishtailed a little in the snow. Deviating again. Dean grinned like a pirate, and he slowed. Not because of the fishtailing or Sam's shocked intake of breath, far from it: he was looking for an address.

"Here it is," he said, pulling up to a blue and white Cape Cod bungalow. "Off you go. I'll pick you up in two hours." He made a shooing motion with one hand, like Sam was a chicken, or a stray cat in the garbage.

Sam stared at Dean. "What?"

"Your friend, whatshisname. Froggie or whatever. This is where he lives. He's been trying to get in touch with you. Go on – go study or whatever it is you freaks do when you're on vacation."

Although Sam could point out that he was technically suspended, not on vacation, he was too distracted for argument. "Did you…" Bewildered, Sam closed his mouth, thought about what Dean was doing. Had done. "Did you arrange a playdate for me?"

"What's a big brother for?" All happy with himself. "Go on, time's wasting and there's a beer with my name on it at Barbarella's." _You don't tell Dad, I won't tell Dad_.

Sam got out, his feet immediately sinking in the powdery snow, over his boot-tops, down into his socks. He watched the Impala pull away. Nothing much to do but follow through. And he had been bored out of his fucking mind for the last three weeks, thought he'd lose it as the tension in the apartment approached Franklin Expedition claustrophobic.

To say that Toad was happy to see him was an understatement. It was like Sam was a one-man frat party come to entertain them. The house was tiny, as was Toad's mom, in stature if not in breadth, who fussed over the two of them, brought them chips and Cokes, turned on every single Christmas light in the house. Once sure the festive tone was correct, she set them up in the living room with a new video game that Toad had got from an uncle for Christmas. She sat in the chair opposite Sam, staring at him like he was a…a…variety of marsupial. Shit.

"So how was Christmas?" Mrs Christiansen asked, face full-moon round, capped with the same unruly dark hair she'd passed along to her son.

_John had slept in till past lunch, so Dean and Sam had taken the Impala for a drive out to the country where they stopped by the frozen edges of Lake Ontario, the wind plucking tears from their eyes. Dean had brought a half-dozen cans of beer and they'd tested how sturdy the ice was and Dean's foot had gone through and he'd laughed like a maniac until Sam had started stomping the edges and they'd given way with a crack like a gunshot. When the beer was gone and the sun was low in the sky, they'd gone back to the apartment, and Dean had talked John into going for dinner at a motel restaurant, where Sam had a puck-like chicken cutlet smothered in peculiar blond gravy. Back home in ceasefire silence, and John had gone out – to hunt or drink, Sam didn't know because he was asleep before his father had returned._

Sam, mouth full of chips, tried intelligible as an option, but failed. On second try, he managed, "We don't really do Christmas."

"Oh?" And he could tell that she was wondering if 'Winchester' was one of those Anglicizations of 'Weinstein' or something.

"Yeah, his family's weirder than ours," Toad said proudly. "Us? Dad's in Minnesota and we don't see him, just me and Mom now." He smiled at his mother and she returned it and Sam could tell that Toad probably liked her, unresentful of the missing half of his family. "Sam's mom died when he was little."

That brought out the big guns with women her age. Sam got the pity face, which he hated. "Oh, I'm so sorry," Toad's nice mother whispered.

Sam took another handful of chips, wished she'd go away for all he liked her open face and kind eyes, but Toad wasn't finished. "And Sam's lived in motels and, like, _camped_ for his whole life. Knows all about first aid and self-defense and stuff. And he's the smartest guy in the whole school."

Now Sam was wishing Toad would shut up. Mrs Christiansen must have been aware of Sam's uncomfortable fidgeting, because she asked them if they wanted more soda, and then left them alone. They played video games for a while, talked about school; the SAT scores weren't back yet, Toad told him. Sam winced; he'd forgotten about that.

"Your dad must be pleased, right? I mean, you did great." _Everyone knows you did great_, his eager eyes said.

Sam hammered a bunch of buttons and blasted an alien to green goo. He'd racked up about a million points so far. "My dad wouldn't know a SAT score from a golf score, not even if it bit him on the leg. But if it bit him, he'd probably know how to kill it."

"Your dad is-" Toad began, then stopped, probably remembering the tequila and the blood. Possibly Dean screaming about ghosts and John slugging him. _Jesus, possibly, Sammy? You think? _Hard to come up with polite ways to finish that sentence.

"I know." Sam shifted his seat. "How was Clifton Hill?"

So Toad told him all about it, the Whack-a-Moles and the pinball, the Haunted Houses and the Elvis Museum. Ripley's Believe-It-or-Not and every cheesy, wonderful thing that the human mind could invent. Toad reported that he'd eaten five hotdogs and three orders of nachos with that melted cheese product topping.

"You see the IMAX?" Sam asked, trying to move Toad off food as a topic.

"Yeah, I've seen it before. Close as I want to get, ever. The Falls scare me shitless."

Sam looked quickly at him. "Why?"

He shrugged. "Just. You know. They make me feel…" His eyes were on the screen and Sam could see the reflection of the alien space ships zipping across his lenses.

"What?" Toad had lived in Niagara Falls his whole life, he'd said. Plenty of time to get used to one of the natural wonders of the world, for it to become commonplace. Maybe some things never got that way, though. Sam had grown up with John Winchester, after all, and he was a force of nature that he never got used to.

Toad still concentrated on the screen. "Sounds really goofy, but…they're dangerous. Really dangerous. And spooky. You hear things."

"Voices?" Sam asked. "Like my brother was talking about?"

Screaming about, actually.

But Toad was done talking about the Falls, and he handed the joystick back to Sam for his turn to murder some electronic aliens. "It was fucked up, what happened with that knife. Next time I go to Clifton Hill you should come. It was really great."

--

_Niagara Falls High School, November 2006_

Billy had taken complete control of the classroom and by the time she came back, five minutes before the bell rang for lunch, it was pretty much over. He didn't look at it like that, but that was what she was thinking. Billy preferred to frame it as setting them all straight on a few things, students and teacher alike.

Ms Simon looked at the board, face unreadable, almost serene. The board was as blank as her face, nothing added to her own words: _Surprise Quiz_ and the rules. Her stupid fucking rules.

An unreadable face was immaterial to Billy, though.

"Well," she said, after a moment. "How did this go down? Who's your spokesman?"

Molly fidgeted in her chair. "Billy said. So Billy said that-" and Marcus snickered.

Ms Simon raised an eyebrow, arms folded across her chest, her green sweater creasing. "Marcus? You have something to add?"

"Well, c'mon, Ms Simon. You do this every year, don't you?" He leaned back in his chair, long dark hair falling away from his face, large and ungainly as a Clydesdale horse. "It's not real."

She nodded once, and thought: _Okay, Billy, you little freak. What have you talked them into? _And, under that, _I'm so tired and it's showing. This isn't his fault; it's mine_.

Billy continued to draw on the cover of his notebook. She was so easy to figure out.

"It's real all right. What was the reasoning?"

Marcus cleared his throat again. "Well, we know you do this-"

"How?" she came back quick. And one glancing, visual slice, so alien and powerful that Billy got confused – present? Future? No, no. Past, her past. Her memory: the new teacher, younger, not as broad in the shoulders, sitting at the desk almost right where Billy was now, head bent, grinning like a madman. Pleased. So fucking _pleased_ with himself. And cresting that, like a greater wave behind, her pride, her love for this kid.

_Shit_, Billy thought, because he'd only ever heard words before, not whole pictures, and never this kind of emotion. This was new. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. He rubbed his eyes hard before realizing that Ms. Simon was staring at him expectantly. Which was what the cultivated friendship with stupid Marcus Delindo was for, wasn't it?

"Billy said you do this every year." Marcus was not earning his pay today, though. Jesus Christ, it was like working with trained chihuahuas.

"Billy?" And saw that image of Mr Winchester, younger again, in her thoughts, grinning. _Her student. He used to be her student and she loved him._

Billy, barely recovered from his shock, looked up hurriedly, arranged himself to bored indifference. It wasn't hard, not really. He waited a moment, then shrugged like he was just waking up.

"So you organized everyone? _Convinced_ them?" She looked around, salvaging what she could. "Why did people believe you?"

"Because I was right." This side of insolent.

"And because it was easy. Maybe it wasn't the right thing to do-" and Molly's voice trailed away, intimidated by Billy's sharp stare. She looked down at her test sheet. She'd tried some of the questions, Billy noticed, little tentative pencil marks. He heard her regret, traces of fear that this test was real.

It was real all right. Just not like all these sheep thought.

He'd let them panic for ten minutes before telling them the truth about this pathetic sociological exercise. Ten minutes more before they believed him. He only cared – and that was stretching it – insofar as to Ms Simon's reaction. The rest of it? Who gave a rat's ass whether the other students were 'comfortable' or 'uncomfortable' with the decision to refuse the quiz?

Billy snickered. "Everyone does what's easiest, Ms Simon."

"So you gave them an out." She dipped her head. _Jesus Christ, how'd he get to be such a piece of work?_

Billy kept his expression arranged to 'innocent,' eyes slightly wide. He realized it probably made him look slightly whacked, not innocent at all. He didn't care about that, either. "Is this the part where you tell us we're starting _Lord of the Flies_ next class? Am I Ralph, Ms Simon?"

And he knew what she was thinking, that he was no Ralph. Because someone else had filled that role for her, years ago.

--

_Niagara Falls, January 2001_

Sam bent over the knapsack, hands patting down pockets like a cop did a collar.

Dean leaned against the doorframe watching him, a cup of coffee in his hand, apology pursing his lips like he was sucking a lemon cough drop. Sam glared at him and the apology morphed into _suityourselfbitch_ and Dean wandered into the kitchen. Sam heard him rattling the carafe off the element.

"Sam," his father at the door now, and Sam straightened but didn't turn. Made him repeat it before picking up the pack and swinging it to his shoulder. "Sam."

Sam considered John silently.

John was steady, though he rarely got up before noon these days, not while there were things to hunt in nearby counties, things that only came out at night. Even now he looked half-asleep – _that's a trick_, Sam reminded himself – a gleam in his dark eyes, half a grin. "What time's this meeting?"

"One fifteen." At least he remembered he had a meeting. That was something. Not that Sam was looking forward to it, but at least John acknowledged that certain things about Sam's education were mandatory, especially showing up for a 'parent conference' after a suspension. Shit, new ground for Sam, a suspension.

It was weird, how you could see John trying to be reasonable, like he was playing charades. "Anything I have to bring?"

_I'd leave the weapons at home_, Sam thought, knowing that voicing it would be the end of him. "Nah, they have all the paperwork I think."

"A pen to sign you back in?" John teased, maybe an attempt to cut the tension, maybe just winding Sam up.

Sam stared, blinking, trying to keep calm. "I don't need you to sign me back in. I've served my three weeks, and missed a bunch of course work and finals for the term are coming up fast, so if you really want to help-"

It wasn't working, the trying to stay calm strategy.

Maybe this was why John had made himself scarce over Christmas, because damned if his eyes didn't go from twinkle to flash in under two seconds. "That's quite a tone to take with me, son." Quiet, though. They were at the quiet stage, where things could go either way – civil or ballistic.

Dean nudged between John and the door, pushed a cup of coffee into their father's hand, smiling at Sam, all surface. "Need a ride Sam? I can give you a ride."

"He can walk. Cool him down," John murmured, turning away, done for now.

Sam glared at Dean. "I don't need you to do anything for me, Dean."

"Whoa!" Dean was still grinning. "You _do_ need to chill, princess. Listen," and he dropped his voice, glanced out the open door. "It really is cold, dude. I could give you a ride."

"You're trying too hard," Sam muttered, ungrateful and knowing it. "Besides, Dad just told you to let me walk. Wouldn't want to get you in trouble."

Sam's pissiness slid off Dean like snow from a warm car hood. "Have it your way. If you're walking you better get going, though."

--

Sitting in the hallway chairs outside the office was just the same as being pilloried in the town square, the only thing missing was the basket of projectile vegetables. The public humiliation was deliberate, Sam knew. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes on the floor. _Keep your head down_, and he smiled aspirin-bitter because that had been Dad's advice, first week of school in September. Look where it had got him.

After so long away, the school smelled weird, worse than a spunkie nest, but beyond the cold sweat and cheap shampoo lingered the faint scent of book and chalk dust. Those odors caused Sam's chest to constrict and he bowed his head like he was in church. Dean was right to call him a freak, but this was a haven for him – sanctuary.

In the same way Notre Dame cathedral was sanctuary for Quasimodo, he thought, noticing the passing feet, none too close, everyone wary of him now.

A pair of ballet-like slippers came into his restricted view, green suede, flecked with bits of salt. "Hey, Sam," and he stood too quickly, startled Ms Simon into a step backward where she could have been knocked flat by the river of students, except that he reached out and steadied her, his size making a sudden eddy in the flow.

He'd forgotten nothing about her, not one detail of her face and he realized that his presence made her smile, that she for one, was glad to see him. That lit him like a torch and his breath disappeared, the air suddenly too thin.

_This is so stupid_, he whispered to himself and could do nothing about it, nothing about his sudden arousal, the way everything buzzed within him. _Idiot_. And smiled like he'd invented it.

If she noticed any of this, she was good at hiding it. "Good to see you back. Your dad's on his way?" Sam nodded. "Open this first then," and passed him an envelope.

Sam took the envelope without actually seeing it: a blue logo on the upper left corner, a windowpane with his name behind it followed by Ms Simon's home address. He turned it over in his hands, wondering what it had to do with his suspension. Then realized.

"Score report." Ms Simon said, matter-of-fact, voice betraying nothing. "Is your dad very punctual?"

Sam nodded, making no move to open the envelope.

Ms Simon ran one hand over her belly and Sam followed the movement and realized with a jolt that she really _was_ pregnant, that you could notice. "Then we have about five minutes before he gets here. Criminal how they make you wait in the hall. I could see if the meeting room is free-"

"No," Sam choked out, tearing open the envelope, suddenly not able to bear it, to bear any of it. The paper was smooth and official, had columns and numbers and it took him a little while to figure it out. There was the obligatory mumbo-jumbo and disclaimers that must appear on every report, and blahditty-blah about raw scores and scaled scores and percentiles. And the numbers themselves.

He swallowed. Then passed the results wordlessly to Ms Simon.

"Holy shit," she whispered for him.

Sam rubbed his face with both chapped hands, the blood once again rushing to every nerve ending, just like it had when he saw her, and as it sometimes did when faced with a very dangerous monster. The endorphins made this a not unpleasant sensation. Pure and radiant, hitting the runner's wall in a distance race and just pushing through to the high. He'd gone over the wall, that was it, and now he was on the other side of something.

A moment as Ms Simon folded the pages into the envelope, tried to pass it back to Sam who waved it away. It wasn't as though he'd be forgetting those numbers any time soon. "Did you make sure these scores were forwarded to-"

But he was nodding; she knew it and so did he. It had been like a military campaign, every detail planned. They had a strategy. The scores were forwarded to the colleges already. The only thing they really hadn't discussed was how he was actually going to _do_ it, once it happened.

A deep voice interrupted Sam's thoughts on the matter. "Ms Simon," and John was right there, fuck, had snuck up on them like he was a big-ass panther or something, just padded right in, dangerous as that in the middle of a school. His face was arranged into a pleasant smile, he'd shaved and although he wasn't wearing a tie, he'd bothered to put on a button up shirt that was actually buttoned up. He'd had practice with Dean; doing this for Sam was new, for both of them.

Ms Simon stood and shook his hand, had to transfer Sam's SAT scores into the other hand in order to do it. But Sam knew that she wouldn't say anything now. It was okay; all the correspondence went through her, to her home. Protection.

A ward against this hunting cat with his feral smile and the shine to his eyes, trying his damnedest to be charming and Sam, taller than John now, shifted his weight from foot to foot as John mentioned the cold snap and Ms Simon wondered how their Christmas had been. She led them past the high admin desk into one of the meeting rooms and all the while she kept up pleasant talk that was meaningless and soothing.

Carcetti joined them for the first ten minutes, which were nerve-wracking. Not because Sam was worried about any lecture on having weapons at school, but because he didn't trust Carcetti to keep her mouth shut about 'Sam's Future'. Carcetti had a way of making things sound like the titles of Victorian novels: Sam's Illustrious Record and Penance Well Served Serves All Well.

If it weren't for the fact that Carcetti could just as easily say Sam's Ivy League Career and A Boy's Life at Stanford, Sam would have enjoyed watching John's increasingly strained performance. Carcetti was obviously flattered by John's steady gaze and heart-felt single-word responses to questions like, 'Do you think Sam understands the severity of his actions?' Ms Simon, on the other hand, was having none of it and John knew it.

Carcetti had another meeting, so she left the three of them in the conference room together with a standard-issue yellow sofa and a plastic potted ficus. Between the Winchesters and the teacher, Sam's paperwork was spread on a low coffee table. On top, the letter outlining the terms of the suspension with Carcetti's flourish, needing to be counter-signed by John and by Sam. In the file below was evidence far more incriminating than a knife.

College applications, for example.

"Sam seems to have an aptitude for books," John murmured the obvious, sliding the letter towards himself, fishing in his pocket for a pen, and Sam held still. Only John Winchester could make 'aptitude for books' sound exactly like 'preference for baby-killing'.

Despite this, Ms Simon smiled, and her eyes met Sam's: Don't worry. Met his eyes, communicating tacit support just as John looked up. Sam knew for a fact that the man missed nothing. Ever. Especially what he would perceive as interference from an outsider, an unknown predator sizing up John's pups.

"Yes, and math and philosophy and languages," and she blinked once in the face of John's intent scrutiny. Sam recognized it: his father was assessing how much damage she could inflict. "You have a very bright son. But I expect you know that."

And their eyes locked.

_Oh shit_, Sam thought, because Ms Simon seemed like one of those Japanese kimono-clad geishas, all gentle deference and layers of polite signifiers, but she had a core of iron. And here it was, now, pinning John to the sofa like he was a collector's butterfly. He'd never seen anyone do this to John Winchester before and he wasn't sure what the reaction would be.

"You're from Georgia," John continued, smiling still, signing the letter, pushing it to Sam across the table with a brusque abbreviated slide, all that it needed to be, no more.

"I am," she nodded, calm. "My husband and I moved up here when I finished teacher's college last year."

"Your first year teaching?"

Suddenly Sam wanted John out of this room, because it was getting dangerous. Short of faking a seizure, though, it wasn't going to happen. Sam recognized what his father was doing now. John was through with being pleasant and compliant, with trying to avoid trouble; he'd perceived the threat, knew that Ms Simon was on Sam's side, and that it needed to be stopped.

"Yes, sir. It's been quite a year."

"Must be quite a struggle, all these mouthy northern kids," nodded his head towards Sam, then turned to her, edged, "and one on the way, too. Keeping a lid on things can't be easy. And learning how to deal with parents, that's a real art. Parents are tricky. Knowing when to cut them some slack, well, that just can't be taught, can it?"

And Sam didn't know if his dad was issuing a threat or a warning, but Ms Simon didn't budge. Her smile widened, calm eyes now cold, arctic sky hard. "Ask Sam. I'm not in the habit of cutting anyone slack. Parents or students."

John turned to Sam, all loose and sparkling, showman smooth. Grinned. A shark, toothed and murderous. "That right son? She's a hardass?"

Sam couldn't speak_. I should just tell him, shut him up._ It burned through him, Cape Canaveral fast, the longing to bludgeon his father into silence.

But he was going to do this on his timetable, not his father's. _Fuck you, Dad_.

Ms Simon laughed and stood, bringing John to his feet. "I am that, Mr Winchester. Your son is going places. We need to do all that we can to help him reach his goals."

A returned chuckle. A room full of laughter that wasn't amused and Sam felt ill. He didn't stand, still looked at his boots, salt stains edging the leather uppers with lacy patterns, chaos random.

"I think I'll be the judge of what kind of assistance my son requires, ma'am. But thank you for thinking of us."

All of it would have been too much, except for one thing, and she held it in her hand. Astronomical scores. Scores so good he'd be fighting off the recruiters, just like she'd predicted. A back door, the way out of John Winchester's twisted prison, and Sam could choose his own means and methods of leaving. He had time. Those numbers bought him a certain prickly patience, because it was already too late, he was up and over, on the other side.

Teacher and hunter shook hands as though they were on the deck of the _USS Missouri_, dignified and hackled. Ms Simon turned to Sam. In the strong albedo from the snow outside, she looked unwell, torn, did not offer him a false smile.

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry_, Sam wanted to tell her.

"Pick up a late slip from the front desk, Sam," she said.

And turned, but John was already gone.

--

_Niagara Falls High School, November 2006_

Although the classroom he normally taught in was sterile as an ICU, Sam wasn't going to be putting up movie posters of _Scarface_ or _American Psycho_; hell, Carcetti was already making funny noises about his teaching methods. She still remembered the knife incident, of course, and all that had followed, but she had always been fair. After his initial interview, she'd whispered, 'I always knew it was your Dad's.' But all the school really needed to do was one quick paperwork trail back to Stanford and they'd discover he hadn't graduated, and Mr. Winchester, everyone's new favorite teacher, would get thrown out on his skinny ass.

That wouldn't help anyone, and he was _needed_ here.

Just this morning, sticking his head in the gymnasium on his way to the staff room for an early morning meeting, Sam had seen members of the student's council hanging banners in the gym for an upcoming basketball game. A large painted turkey, lopsided and disgruntled, had filled Sam with a sudden, swooping fear.

_It had been easy._ It had been easy to forget why he was here. Coffee with Elise every other morning, sometimes after school, another couple of dinners in town, the kids who were jazzed on his teaching, talking about big ideas around justice and ethics. Goddamn, it had been exhilarating, okay. But Thanksgiving was coming up fast, and here was the turkey and he'd seen blood flowing on the court. Elise – goddamn, _Elise_ – falling to the boards, and the blood…Sam's breath had come up short, wheezed through a chest constricted with shock turning to horror. _I have to save her_, he had thought standing in the gymnasium's doorway.

He thought it again now, staring at the blank walls of the Law & Society classroom, the students hunched over a mid-term exam, quiet for once_. I won't be here long enough to hang up movie posters._ Not wanting to bring on any visions – not that he knew how to do that any more than he knew how to stop them once they'd come – Sam rubbed his temple with two fingers, tried to tease more from that shocking sudden vision on the road that had almost killed them.

Elise – Ms Simon then – eyes wide, scared, the turkey poster coming away from the wall behind her, a single shot, loud as a cannon. He thought about the noise of it. A shotgun, not a rifle or a handgun, not with that sound. Sam took a deep breath and Billy Shuter looked up quickly.

Sam didn't meet Billy's gaze; he'd been half expecting it, always catching Billy staring at him. After almost two weeks of teaching them, he was still sizing up Billy. He had the feeling that Billy was doing exactly the same thing to him. It wasn't a comforting thought.

He checked his watch, knowing that he should warn the class that their time would soon be up.

They handed in their papers with all the enthusiasm of cattle going to the abattoir, some squeaking hurried pencil scratchings after the bell until Sam called time and even then, trying to eke their last thought onto the page. The good students, anyway.

Billy Shuter sat still at his desk, not writing, paper flipped face down. Then he reached over and gave Marcus a shove. Marcus, the great lout, didn't need a second prompting to get the hell out. Others lingered, the girls, Molly making her 'o' into a little heart on her exam and Sam trying not to notice. He said goodbye to the last of the bunch, all traipsing out for the day, talk turning to television and music and food. Sam shuffled the papers straight against the flat of his hand, body at an oblique angle to Billy, aware of him awkwardly taking his feet.

"So, Billy, how'd you find it?" Sam asked. Billy came up to his chin, was still growing, lank hair probably blonder if he ever washed it. The pants hitched up high, button up shirt tucked in at the front, loose at the back, sleeves rolled way up, cutting circulation mid-bicep like a tourniquet. All show, Sam was convinced, not really understanding what the show was about.

Billy tilted his head to one side. _Like he's listening_, Sam thought, baffled.

"Billy?"

The kid smirked a little. "You like this."

Sam placed the papers on the desk, held his hand out for Billy's. Felt the time stretch as Billy refused to give it up. "Your test?" Sam finally asked, pointing out the obvious.

The outstretched hand was ignored. "The teaching, being back here," Billy clarified and Sam scowled. He hadn't told any of his students that he'd gone to this school. Billy noticed, tried on a smile. "Your name is on one of the trophies in the case. Cross-country team, wasn't it?" Voice and body thin in a way that was unsettling, almost threatening, an assassin's wire in uncomfortably tight clothes. "Then I checked the class photo by the admin office. You're not in it, not unless you've changed so much in six years I can't recognize you."

_Huh_. "No," Sam said slowly, gripping his upper arm with the opposite hand, trying to figure out where Billy was going with this. "I missed graduation. Never had my photo taken."

"Really?" Billy drawled. Then held out his exam, just when Sam wasn't ready for it. "I didn't finish it."

"You didn't understand something?" Sam asked, not looking at the paper, just putting it on the desk with the others. "I know it's…hard. High school. Fitting in." Billy's stare was like a goat's, blank and formless. "Especially when your family's not your standard-issue one." Sam sat on the desk, trying to come physically down to Billy's level, stretching long legs in front of him, hands to either side on the desk, a fair simulacrum of relaxed and open. _Elise…and blood and falling and falling._

"You mean a dead mother and capitalistic Dad with his goddamn face on every bus stop bench flogging crappy cardboard box houses? Bottle blonde upwardly mobile step-mom with two perfect kids? And me, the freak. That kind of standard-issue family? Or yours?"

He'd stepped right into it, Sam had. He took a breath, willing down the flex of irritation. This was a kid. A kid trying to find his way in the world, not so different from all the oddball appellations that had accreted on Sam over the years. _It's just a phase, and it'll pass,_ he thought.

"We can't choose our families, that's true," he said instead. Paused a moment to consider the uneasy stance, the disinterested eyes. He had more than one job here. "How'd your mom die, Billy?"

"Are you screwing Ms Simon?" Billy came back rattlesnake fast, his point, the reason he was here, and Sam knew it suddenly.

"_What_?" Sam was too surprised to be angry. _He's trying to provoke me. Don't let him._

"Never mind," Billy returned. "I have some stuff to do. See you tomorrow." And left Sam slumped against the desk, trying not to give in to the anger now sizzling through his veins. He ran a hand through his hair, breath short, heart pounding. He sat at the desk, staring at the stack of exams.

For a few minutes he occupied himself thumbing through the mid-terms, not wanting to think about Billy's precise accusation. He put Billy's paper to one side, not even wanting to be that close to it. Finally, when he was done looking at the others, he took the last one in his hands, turned it over.

It was maddening. Absolutely perfect up to the fifty-first point, then nothing. Blank lines. It was a pass and no more than that. The first half complete and perfect, like Billy was demonstrating both his boredom and his brains. _It's not that he can't do it; it's that he won't._

_-- _

_Oswego NY, February, 2001_

"Did you know," Dean began conversationally, trying to take his mind off what his dad was about to do, "that Joey Belladonna is from Oswego?"

"And did you know," John replied, short and sharp as a hangnail, "that you can talk shit better than just about anybody I know?" Dean couldn't see him at the moment, mostly because Dean was concentrating on the stucco ceiling, but he heard the rustle of sterilized paper being ripped open and smelled the tang of rubbing alcohol.

There was warmth in John's voice, though, honest-to-god concern. Dean waited for it, because his dad was curious. A great flaw. The man had imagination and curiosity; those things had never been taken from him, though Dean suspected that his father would have been a happier man if they had been.

"Okay. Who's Joey Belladonna?"

But Dean couldn't answer him right then, was too busy clenching his teeth, trying not to cry out as his dad irrigated the long gouge across his ribs. The ceiling. The ceiling was a good place to look, because Dean was going to throw up if he saw whatever mess the broxa had made of his side. Down at the lakeside park, Dad had taken one look at the deep gash along Dean's ribs, checked to make sure his breathing wasn't asymmetrical, that he hadn't punctured a lung, and said, almost fucking cheerily, that it was 'not bad.' Which meant that it was going to be a long night.

Worst of all, the broxa – a female one, not the higher order demonic ones, but one of those bamboozling daffy kinds so stupid that you actually forgot they were not only vicious but that they could _fly_ – had gotten away in the night, carrying a parking meter with it. Dean had thought chaining its leg to the post would hold it fast. He'd been wrong – about that and a couple of other things.

The parking meter was heavy enough that the creature would probably exhaust itself halfway over ocean-sized Lake Ontario. It would drop to the depths long before it made to the other side. And even if it did make to Toronto, then it would be a Canadian problem and no concern of the Winchesters.

John had dispatched the other broxa with ease, a clean beautiful shot with a silver-tipped arrow, something cinematic about it in a real old Hollywood sense, like hanging out with Errol Flynn, minus the tights.

Oh shit, whatever Dad had given him to kill the pain was working a little too well if he was putting images of a Technicolor Robin Hood and John Winchester together in the same script.

"Lead singer of Anthrax," Dean finally rasped, finding his voice and John chuckled.

Dean allowed his head to relax into the pillow for a minute, trying not to anticipate where the next hurt would come from. "He was in _Pledge Night_, too, you remember that? He played the killer before he got scarred up by that acid shit. Fuck, Joey Belladonna as a college student."

And stopped, not wanting to stir up trouble, because Sam was back in Niagara and had hit the books so hard Dean knew without really thinking about it that something was up. And that was way too scary a thought for Dean most of the time, but especially right now with half his ribcage exposed like a side of beef.

"Dean, if you remembered half as much about broxas as you do heavy metal singers, we wouldn't be here." That was light, especially considering he was rattling around in the first aid tackle box again, this time for the suture kit. "Hold on to something." And _that_ was fair warning.

Time passed, slowly. Hours later, Dean woke to John's rumbly voice, holding edge. On the phone. Dean struggled, trying to prop himself up on his elbows, but that wasn't happening; his dad had taped his side after sewing up the laceration. A broken rib _and_ a deep cut, one on top of the other. Great. Light out now; he could see his father's agitated profile, the way he stood by the bathroom door, one hand intermittently in his front pocket, then out, a fist, then back in.

Sam at the other end of the line, of course.

"No, he's fine. Just a bit banged up, thought we'd stay here for a day or two, that's all." Pause, hand out. Fist. A sigh. _Jesus, Sam_, Dean thought. "You don't go down there." Dean could imagine Sam's sigh in return. "I didn't call you a retard, Sam." Trying to keep his voice down, trying not to wake Dean. "What does she need now? Well, you can fake my signature, can't you?" Another silence and then John's voice went to that place Dean dreaded, always thought it would one day herald a huge embolism: "You will do as I say."

And that was all. John turned and snapped shut his phone all at the same time, eyes meeting Dean's. They didn't say anything. Dean looked away, vaguely embarrassed to be caught listening in.

John shook his head slightly, and that was a warning too. "You hungry?" he asked, picked up a paper bag on the table with the markings of a local bakery, butter staining the brown paper translucent.

Sitting up was agony, but Dean did it without complaint, mostly because John was verging on hovering, which he only did when he was worried and pleased. They'd gotten rid of the broxas and it had only taken them two days: a job well done, even with the parking meter debacle. Worried of course, as he always was when one of them got hurt, worried for Sam being alone, too. _Sam doesn't see it_, Dean thought, ignoring the furtive scowl John gave when Dean sucked in air as John's arm levered him upright.

Even though he was nowhere near hungry, Dean took the flakey Danish on offer, chewed slowly, trying to keep his breath shallow.

"You know," John began conversationally. He wasn't much for conversation, and so Dean paid attention, alarm bells going off. "Niagara Falls is getting a little stale, we're getting no where with McGreevy's ghosts. We should move on." Not making conversation. Soliciting support.

_Fuck._

"He's right, you know," Dean said quietly, not sure where the courage was coming from. Not courage, really. His own stupid brand of stubbornness.

"Who? McGreevy?" And Dean just stared, forced his dad to say it out loud. "All right. What is Sam right about now?" John finally asked, bits of pastry dropping to the motel's decrepit carpet. It was a holiday spot, and no one went on holidays by the cold Great Lake in early February. "Seems Sam's always right about something whether I'll like it or not."

"Stopping the Falls in '69," Dean risked, because he had John at a disadvantage and knew it. "It has something to do with the jumpers."

John lowered himself to the bed, smile shallow as Dean's breathing. "Is this an ambush, Dean?" The smile widened a little, eyes danced. "You gonna talk some more shit at me? Go on, I do like to hear you spin things."

No way could he laugh and Dad shouldn't be trying to crack jokes. Still. He shrugged a little, but that made him wince, which caused John to drop the smile fast.

John reached over to the table for a Styrofoam cup of coffee, which he passed to Dean. "Okay, tell me about this theory. Your idea, or Sammy's?"

Dean took the cup, hoped that the caffeine would clear his head. "Bit of both," he admitted. "He doesn't want to go down to the Falls, Dad, he's way too busy with calculus and trig and all that other shit. Hell, I'm the one hearing the ghosts, not him." Looked at John meaningfully. It was true.

All levity disappeared from John's eyes. Concern, plain as day. _Why doesn't Sam see this? _ Dean thought, then: _Why doesn't he ever let Sam see this?_

Dean continued, not wanting to get sidetracked once he'd started. "They found something there. I'll betcha a million bucks." He raised his eyebrows, put on a little smile. _C'mon, Dad_. "I could dig around a little, maybe find one or two of the workers who was there, talk to them. Do some research on all those daredevils that have cropped up in the last few years."

The wind had picked up outside, blowing a draft across the large room. The motel was not only shabby, it was barely winterized. The coffee only meekly suggested it had been hot at some point in its life. Dean waited.

After a minute, John said, "Gotta call yesterday from Caleb; he mentioned something down in South Carolina, looks promising. Warm." Looked meaningfully at the gooseflesh prickling Dean's arms.

What, was Dean six, that he needed bribes? What was next, Disneyworld? Still, he knew how fast John would pack them up if he didn't play this right. Ambush? Okay, coming right up.

"Hey, let me explore this dry Falls idea a little, okay Dad? See if there's anything there." This was Plan A: Ghosthunting as Anchor. The only other thing he had was Plan B: Guilt Trip. Dean didn't lay guilt often, but that didn't mean he didn't know how to do it.

John got up, but carefully, trying not to bump the bed. He knew how much broken ribs didn't like to be jostled, which was why they'd be staying in Oswego for a couple of days. The car would be a mobile torture chamber.

He was considering Dean's idea; face closed, eyes to the far wall. "I don't know, Dean. Seems that it's not a really great idea for you to be doing the investigative work on this one. These ghosts are strong and they got McGreevy in the end."

_Yeah, well McGreevy was an obsessed maniac,_ Dean thought, taking a quick sip of tepid coffee.

"I'll be mostly in the library, Sam says they have a really great section on all the daredevils. I'll figure it out." But that wasn't it, was it? Any other place, John would have been happy that Dean was trying to figure out a new angle to a cold case. Any other time, John would have been right beside him. "Unless this isn't about the ghosts."

John's back was all he got.

Which meant he was right, of course. Time for Plan B, however distasteful.

"You know, if this is about Sam and how he's doing in school and the suspension…" Let it lie there so John could kick it or pick it up.

"He's gonna leave us," John murmured, almost too low to hear, a dead sound, experimental. As if John hadn't allowed himself to think this thought, much less say it out loud.

"No he's not," Dean said quickly. "He's just being stupid." _Stupid, and stubborn, all elbows and rolling eyes and mouth that you oughta need a permit to operate_. "It's just a phase." He didn't even know if that was true, but the whole idea of Sam being elsewhere scared him worse than just about anything, so he shoved it away, concentrated on seeing them through to the end of the school year, because that _mattered_ and was within his control. And here came the lever. "He needs to finish out his year, Dad."

Bearded face, over the shoulder, eyes masked and roiling with emotion. Imagination, curiosity – and emotion. Sam and John were so much alike and Dean was pretty sure they never saw it in the other. John had never finished high school, Dean knew, was in the Marines before that happened. _You don't need a diploma to hunt what we do_. "Sam'll learn everything he needs to with us."

_Is that why you're not letting him near the Falls?_ Dean wanted to ask, but provocation wasn't his strategy right now. "True." He needed to agree with his dad, pull him along, not push. "And he needs school as well, Dad. You know it."

John pulled up, standing in the middle of the room, drawing in air through his nostrils, spooked. "You didn't need it." Throwing shit back at him Rhesus monkey random, messy and aimless.

Dean tried to move a little, tried to sit up straighter, but that was impossible without passing out, which wasn't his plan. The pain that screwed up his face, though, that was intentional and he hated to do it, but this was important. It was important to Sam and it was right and what was a little pain on his part and a little patience on his dad's?

When he'd caught his breath again, John was looking at him with a lancing guilt. _Good_, Dean thought, getting ready to exploit it. "I didn't need it. I didn't want it. But," and here was unknown country, "I didn't really have a choice, did I?"

John blinked, and Dean was more than a little afraid. Let sleeping dogs lie, he told himself. But he was halfway there now, and John was still staring at him, expecting more. "You were so fucked up, Dad. And we had no money, rent was way past due. What choice did I have?" And he held up a hand as John's mouth opened, because Dean wouldn't be able to push his advantage if his dad started apologizing, for christ's sake. "It wasn't important to me, high school." _It wasn't. The football teams and proms and tests. None of it was important. _

"But it is to Sam. Dad," and he lowered his hand. This was close to begging and he wasn't above that either. "Please. You moved us so fast out of Tacoma I never had a chance. Sam lost his last few weeks that year, a whole shitload of exams he had to make up later. We can do it different this time, Dad. I'll do whatever you think is right about the ghosts, but please, let Sam finish his year."

That was it, that was his best case. But he had John, Dean knew, had him packaged like so much meat at a butcher shop. There you go. Dean felt no triumph, only a slow uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Slowly, John sat on the bed again, seeing what was owed, maybe feeling guilt, which was so familiar he didn't even register it anymore for all Dean knew. He always had a parting shot, though, because that was his way. "Hope you don't regret this, son."

But he nodded, and it was done.

--

_Niagara Falls High School, November 2006_

A cleared throat and Sam dredged his stare up from the stack of exams like he was twenty feet below surface, oxygen-starved. Dean leaned in the doorframe, leather coat open, amusement playing on his face. He wasn't looking at Sam though. He was looking at the empty classroom.

"Man," Dean said as he took a few steps into the room, fingers brushing a desktop experimentally, "this brings back memories."

Still rattled from his encounter with Billy, Sam gathered the papers, loosened his tie. Dean had a way of making you feel as though your tie was too tight. "You remember high school?"

A short laugh. "C'mon. I wasn't wasted the _whole_ time. I remember a couple of things. The girls," and bent his head back a little, glancing at the fluorescent lights, all smiles. "'That's what I love about these high school girls, man. I get older, they stay the same age,'" quoting Linklater verbatim, looking quickly into the hallway like a gaggle of cheerleaders were practicing there.

Sam shook his head. "Why did they let you in?"

Dubious attention back to Sam. Dean looked puzzled. "I need permission?"

"Yeah, you do, creepyass stranger-man. And don't go looking at the students funny. You're just going to get us in trouble." Still, it was a relief. Dean had seemed nearly back to normal over the past week, just his usual self, though Sam suspected it was probably a trick, a magician's sleight of hand. _Look over here!_ While other, darker things festered in the shadows. On the other hand, Dean could just be giving Sam some room; Dean was pretty fucking adept at that, and Sam should remember that it wasn't necessarily a good thing for either of them.

It was the one way Dean could keep Sam off his back, for instance.

"You done bein' all teachery? Makin' sure they all know their times tables? Wanna grab an early dinner?" Sam looked at him like he'd just recited the Lord's prayer in Armenian. "Dinner?" Dean repeated, voice softer, and there it was, that thin edge of maybe not being as okay as he was leading Sam to believe.

"Sure." Sam cast about the table, trying to figure out what he needed to bring home with him tonight. If he'd actually gotten a briefcase, Dean would have peed himself laughing. He still had a knapsack, though. He took off the tie, stuffed the papers into the bag, untucked his shirt like he was shedding skin, Dean silently laughing at him the whole time, close to making a knife joke, Sam knew, not quite daring even after all these years.

"You don't have…plans?" Not quite teasing, something else that Sam couldn't identify.

And Sam had a knee-jerk reaction that served him poorly on the getting-Dean-to-open-up front: he gave Dean a flat stare that both shut him down and shut him up. "No, I don't." Man. Back here, being asked about his _plans_ and _Ms Simon_ and Sam might as well have slammed the door in Dean's face. Rattled, he was still rattled, and Dean was at least _trying_. "Let's go for a beer. The Swan still around?"

The opening snapped shut with a grin and raised eyebrows. "The Swan, she is still around. Even that waitress that liked Dad so much. Mona," and Dean's eyes widened suggestively, and he was out the door, scanning the hallways for strays. "You seeing anything interesting here?" Two senior girls sauntered by on their way to basketball practice, casually sexual in their sweats with the school name arcing across the ass. One gave a wave to Sam, who couldn't remember her name, she wasn't even in his class, and Dean slowed up enough so that Sam could catch up. A grin. "I mean, other than-"

Sam sighed, almost stopped, glad and annoyed and glad to be annoyed. "No! I mean…no. They're my…students, Dean."

And Dean's mouth twisted a little and he shrugged in his coat and that was that.

They got to the car and the cold seats were freezing. Sam slid in and the Impala looked familiar and alien, time conflating to an all-encompassing 'then', all those years spent here, a thousand memories fighting for his attention.

From normal to weird and Sam could no longer tell the difference. Dean started up the Impala with a roar and Sam's social capital went up astronomically as the kids still hanging out in the parking lot realized that it was Mr Winchester getting into that car. Dean waved at them, immediately de-valuing Sam's new investment.

"So," Dean drawled. "What's wrong?" He looked over his shoulder, backed slowly out. "What's got you so squirrelly? I mean, aside from Ms Simon and her totally hot-"

Sam sighed, cutting Dean off. "There's this kid in my class. Who is, I don't know, who is…" He drifted off, mostly because he felt Dean straighten beside him. Shit, Dean had been expecting jokes. Still. "There's this kid, and he's off, Dean. I can't quite figure if he's just, you know, a weird geek, or if he's really…our kinda weird."

The park flashed by, industrial landscape rust and flat aluminum. "What's his story?"

Sam told him as much as he knew, except for Billy's razor question. This was followed by an odd protective twinge for both of them, Billy and Dean, because they'd ruin each other and Sam knew it. "I'll handle it. It'll be okay."

"Thanksgiving's coming up soon, Sam."

"Shit, yeah, Elise wondered if we would come over. Turkey."

Dean quieted, settled in like a bad cold. Walking through a minefield was easier, Sam thought. Dean didn't even manage a smile this time. "Thanksgiving?" And underneath – _isn't she supposed to be dead by Thanksgiving?_

"I know, I know, Dean," Sam evaded; Dean wouldn't understand. "It'll be okay, man. It's just a dinner invitation." But that wasn't it, wasn't it at all, of course. "She's going to be perfectly okay. I'll figure it out."

Dean shrugged, shook his head once. "Well, that's good, 'cause I'm coming up with diddly squat at the fucking library. Nothing weird has _ever_ happened at that school." Stared at Sam, daring him to contradict, ignoring the road.

"_Dean_!" And Sam slammed his hand onto the dashboard, the one that wasn't wearing the neverending cast, as the car in front of them screeched to a sudden stop. Dean hit the brakes with a curse, turning the wheel at the same time so that the Impala skidded safely to one side.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean shouted, hand opening the door, halfway out before Sam had time to say a word. The guy in front of them, driving a Subaru SUV, was already flat-footed on the pavement and he was big. _What now?_ Sam despaired.

"Close enough, buddy!" the guy shouted, arms splayed like some creature trying to make itself look bigger, though this guy hardly needed it, was fucking huge to begin with, and Dean _did_ get all the way out now. Sam was too shocked by how quickly this was happening to do more than gape.

"What?" Dean said, arms wide, his own version of animal kingdom posturing. "You can't stand a little company on the road?"

"I don't like some pretty boy driving his daddy's car up my ass is what."

Dean slammed his door, and Sam remembered how his brain was actually attached to the rest of his body. He pulled up on the handle hard and vaulted out, ready to get in between because it was heading in that direction fast. Man, this Subaru asshole had picked the wrong guy to fuck with today. Sam would be scraping one or the other of them off the pavement if they weren't careful.

"Dean, we're on a public road," that was a warning, but Dean's attention was all on the ape in front of him. "With traffic. And people with cell phones. Calling 9-1-1." Dean wasn't even looking at him, was sauntering slowly to Subaru man, who was as tall as Sam with at least a hundred pounds of gym on him.

Dean's voice was soft and Sam had to strain to hear it over car and the ever-present Falls. "This is my car, asshole. And as my brother's pointed out, this is a public road. So get fucking used to the traffic."

Dean's hands were in his pockets, and Sam prayed he didn't have a weapon there. Goddamn, when had he begun to worry about Dean killing ordinary motorists in broad fucking daylight? The big guy got up real close, the very definition of 'in your face' and drew up two meaty hands. Shoved Dean back a foot.

The rest happened so fast that even though Sam had been waiting for it, anticipating it, his eyes couldn't track. He assumed one quick jab to jaw at just the right angle, and Subaru man went down like someone had cut his strings.

If it had ended there, Sam might have called it justice, maybe even bought Dean a beer and laughed about it, but it didn't end there because Dean wouldn't let it. Dean dropped to one knee, hauled back, and landed three blows in quick succession, all to Subaru's nose, which broke with the same noise as a meat cleaver doing its job in a Chinese BBQ stand.

Then Dean came to his feet, left hand snaked in Subaru's shirtfront, pulling him up for a better angle to hit him some more. Sam leapt sideways, grabbed Dean by the collar and pulled him away. Dean shrugged Sam off, a breathless moment where Sam didn't know which way Dean was going to go, where _Dean_ didn't know which way he would go, and he finally strode back to the car, shaking knuckles only half-healed from his last run-in with an ape-shaped door.

Sam, on the other hand, was shaking for different reasons, and Dean shifted the car from neutral, gunned it down Hyde Park Road, going faster than he ought to. He was doing a lot of that lately. He stared out at the road unblinking, blood running down the back of his hand. Sam could see the quick rise and fall of the pendant on his chest, the way he kept glancing in the rearview mirror looking for whatever was chasing him.

Any other time in their lives, Sam would have trusted his voice, would have spoken up, asked Dean what the fuck that had been about. Not this time. Sam's breath was coming short and he had never really been frightened _of_ Dean, not before now.

Dean flexed his hand a few times, wiped the blood on his black t-shirt where it wouldn't show, his brows discovering each other like old friends above the bridge of his nose, treating Sam with all the deference he might accord a bag of groceries, concentrating on the road. They drove in silence, no music, no radio, Dean weaving down side streets. Right, right, left, almost without purpose or plan.

Finally, Dean cleared his throat. "This Walnut, coming up?" he asked, voice carefully pitched. Neutral, a low throb behind it. Dean easily questioned a lot of things but never his sense of direction, and Sam had no idea why he was being asked this, what Dean might be really asking him. _Telling him_.

Sam swallowed. "Yeah," he agreed, still looking at Dean. He opened his mouth, thought about trying to make some kind of joke, make light, _don't come on strong_. But that was all Sam ever seemed capable of, no matter that it never worked.

Dean beat him to it. "Don't." Almost not a word, a low sound, soft as ash. It held warning and despair, and Dean pulled into the nearly empty parking lot outside the Swan, killed the engine, but didn't sit there because he knew Sam was warming up for an interrogation.

As Sam got out the other side, Dean fixed his stare on him. "You know, they still serve the Man o' War burger – the one Dad liked? With fried onions and horseradish?"

Back to normal. A smile bending his lips, bloodied hand jammed deep into his pocket, not a care in the world. _Oh, Dean_, Sam breathed as Dean turned to the tavern's door. _You have no idea, do you?_ No idea where the edge was anymore, how far the drop might be. What was on the other side.

And to be fair, neither did Sam.

--

**TBC**

**a/n:** The research – okay, what's on the bedside table? Lionel Shriver's incredibly disturbing _We Need to Talk About Kevin_, a fictionalized account of raising a sociopath, Patrick McGreevy's _Imagining Niagara_, an excellent exploration of what Niagara _means_ to us as a society, and the Criminology textbook _Forensic Psychology_ by Lawrence S. Wrightsman.


	6. Erosion

**Dazzleland, Chapter Six/**Erosion

**Rating: **Gen, PG-13. And I said at the beginning that there'd be sex, right? Riiiiight. WIP, will be 10 chapters. Horror/drama

**Spoilers**: present-day action takes place between _Crossroad Blues_ up to _Croatoan_.

**Love n' kisses**: Canon is the Krip's. Words are mine, but it wouldn't be here without the fast and furious betas, jmm0001 and Lemmypie. **Happy birthday, Lemmy!** And no, JM, you complete _me_.

**STF**: In 2001, Sam's keeping some secrets: he's awaiting his college admission results while crushing on his teacher. Dean, having secured stability for Sam's school year but unaware of Sam's future plans, is pursuing Sam's theories about what's haunting the Falls. In the present day, the brothers are following one of Sam's demon-related visions that involves his old school, where he proceeds to get a job as a supply teacher and where his friendship with his old teacher, Elise Simon, is suddenly requited. Meanwhile, Dean's increasingly erratic and violent grieving process isn't helping one bit.

--

_Niagara Falls NY, early April, 2001_

Sam's backpack was loaded, weighed a ton. _Concepts in Geography_ and _Hola Español_ and a biography of William Golding because Sam went at things with all pistons pumping, didn't let anything slide, no matter how much of a done deal school was for him now. He kicked a beer bottle cap lying on the sidewalk and it ricocheted off the rusted leg of a mailbox before spinning out into traffic.

"Sam," Toad began a little breathlessly beside him, halfway through a wet and long trudge from school into town, and Sam sensed trepidation.

About to pressure their tenuous friendship, maybe. About to ask what was up with Sam's fucked-up family. Sam was ready for it; he'd been ready for it for months.

Instead: "How do you stand it?"

"What?" Sam asked and Toad might have shrugged; it was hard to tell in the big Bills coat he wore.

"Damon and his guys," he glanced at Sam's face where a reddened patch announced its recent proximity to an elbow; Sam had been tripped running across the industrial lands during cross-country practice earlier that afternoon and they'd been on him for all of two seconds before he'd squirmed out from under them and _run_. He was fast, which prevented many things from escalating.

"I dunno. They're idiots, that's how." He flicked a glance at Toad, at his saucer eyes, actually wanting to know, like Sam had a magic trick. But if Sam had to tell him, Toad had already lost the battle. He didn't have 'fast' in his arsenal, didn't have 'pride'. "You should ignore them."

"They said you were a homicidal maniac and that you'd brought a pipe bomb to school," in a rush, like it would be easier that way. The lights turned red and they waited at the crosswalk, waited for a hole in traffic, lights reflecting wetly from the road.

"They're idiots," Sam repeated, unable to produce much more, not wanting to. Talking about them gave them a form and weight and significance they didn't deserve. "I got something today," he changed the subject, and joyful fear flared through him like a cartoon fuse running to a stick of dynamite. The traffic light was still red, so he swung his backpack round to his hands, fumbled with the safety pin holding the zipper together. He noticed that his hands were completely steady, like this didn't matter at all. "Ms. Simon gave it to me. I met her for lunch."

A signal to Toad, because Ms. Simon's last day at the school had been two weeks ago, and meeting up with her, her giving him something, meant only one thing.

He held onto the envelope, almost unwilling to let Toad see it, like the words on the letter might evaporate if Toad laid eyes on them. Enough that Toad could see the logo on the corner, the return address, Sam's name on a label affixed to the front, the c/o address one in Deveaux Park. The words 'Stanford' and 'California' worked a strange magic on Sam, caused the lit fuse to travel more quickly, starting somewhere in his groin and running all the way to the tips of his fingers, the right hand, the letter.

Toad grinned. "Like you weren't expecting it? You already got into Harvard and Yale and Columbia. Tell me you weren't expecting this." They walked across the road, Sam slipping the pack onto his shoulders, still holding the letter.

"Yeah. This one's different." Giving it weight. And form and substance. Because there was acceptance and then there was paying for it. But Stanford didn't let you without offering a _way_ to pay, a scholarship. But Toad already knew what the contents were; he could see it in Sam. Sam knew his eyes must be shining, how his face was flushed beyond the ability of an elbow to mar.

He should get it out now, he _had_ to get it out now, because at home such happiness would invite questions, maybe even attack. This far, he'd managed. This far, he could contain it, could imagine it. Beyond what was in this letter, though, was such a foreign country – a literally different country with ocean salt and breezy orange scents and soft sunshine, no sound of Falls or winter's embrace or diesel and spring rot – that Sam knew it would show. That Dean would take one look at him and say, 'what the hell's happened?' and he wouldn't be talking about the graze on Sam's cheekbone.

After a moment, Toad took the envelope, looked inside, and Sam thought back to Ms. Simon's glowing eyes, because here it was again, someone genuinely pleased for him, proud of him, someone who knew the worth of what he could do with mind and pen and paper. Ms. Simon had hugged him, awkward only because of the big belly, and she had cried. Sam had never had a woman cry happy tears for him and something huge had shifted within him, and his eyes had filled too.

Man, he really couldn't go home just yet. Not…yet. This was all too close, because dammit if his eyes weren't swimming just looking at Toad's reaction.

"Goddamn," Toad whistled and because they were standing in front of a juice bar, the kind of place that would die a slow death all winter only to be revived with the summer's tourism, Sam suggested getting a fruit smoothie. Calm himself down, he might have added.

Inside, Toad looked over the letter line by line, Sam hovering at his shoulder, expensive juice worth it, just to buy him this time. These things only happen once or twice in a lifetime, he thought. _Enjoy it._ Because it would be gone soon. It would become reality and he'd have to deal with it; that would be its own kind of hard.

"Full scholarship," Toad whispered. "Living allowance." He looked up. "How the hell are you going to tell your dad?"

Sam took a deep breath, turned his juice cup around, stared out the window. "I think I have to tell Dean first." Get in practice saying the actual words, because Dean was by far the easier of the two. "Maybe…I think maybe. I think maybe he'd come with me, you know?" He'd been thinking of little else since Christmas, how he'd get Dean to come with him. "Dad would probably want him to, for him to keep an eye on me. Dean could freelance around the area-" Sam hadn't told Toad exactly what his Dad and Dean did for a living since credit card scams wouldn't exactly add to the Winchesters' sterling reputation, "-and Dad could check up on us every few months, when he was in the area. You know. His work's pretty mobile."

Toad was nodding. "Yeah. You think your brother would want to do that? Could he just stay in one place?"

If Dad told him to? Oh, yeah. But more than that, Dean would want to. He'd like California, the beaches, the weather. The girls. Christ, the girls alone. He'd be okay. Even if Dad was cool to the idea for the first while, Sam reasoned, Dean would want to. He could even get some kind of real job, paid work, maybe in construction or something on a boat. Dean liked boats, was a good swimmer. A lifeguard? Jesus, Dean could do anything he liked with that smile – bartending, sales, car racing…and somewhere Sam was smart enough to know that this was all fairy dust, but he kept on telling himself these stories, lining up ridiculous occupations for his hunter brother, because any alternative was just unimaginable.

"Dean'll have a great time," Sam replied, sucking bubbly air through the straw.

They said goodbye at the corner, with Sam assuring Toad that his own acceptance letter would probably be in the mail shortly, and he rounded the corner with new and vaguely sexual vegetables stacked outside, mirrors and _i ching_ and bamboo steamers and Chinese language newspapers. The smell of cat and wet cardboard. That distinctive fecal odor that he knew to be prickly durian.

Letter folded into his pocket, hand worrying it like Greek beads.

Dean met him in the upstairs hallway, car keys in hand, eyes serious, his fingers rubbing tension into a metallic jangle. Greek beads of a different sort. "C'mon, been waiting for you, princess. You gotta notebook in there?" Gestured to the pack and Sam nodded, tried to snap a comeback about weapons of choice, but didn't have it in him. The letter in his pocket erased that; a hollow cavernous fear marking these moments with Dean as stolen, worth hanging on to, worth recognizing as ephemera.

He followed Dean back down the stairs, out the door, Dean spinning the keys around his forefinger. "Where the hell have you been, dude? I've been waiting for you," he repeated but didn't give Sam time to answer, which was actually helpful. "Got some stuff to do."

"Where are we going?"

"Need your help." A short grin, only seen from the side, the crumple of skin by his eyes, "And you owe it to me, since it was your damn idea in the first place."

They drove south, and Dean told him they were going to Cheektowaga, a suburb of Buffalo, because he'd managed to find Antonio Delisle, who'd worked on the Falls in 1969 and was now retired. Who was now thinking that the Niagara Falls High School geography club president was coming to interview him.

"Geography club?" Sam repeated, hefting the pack off his lap onto the seat beside him. "There's no geography club at…" and Dean made a manifestly rude noise in the back of his throat, something that signaled either delight or an upcoming lugie. The noise never failed to make Sam feel like puking. Sam rolled his eyes. "So, why do you need me?"

"What? Do I look like an extra from Jump Street?"

"Why…why'd you give Mr.Delisle this high school story, then? Why not…" and his voice trailed away, knowing. Dean wanted to involve Sam: it was his idea. Not payback, though. A reward, Dean's idea of a reward, because what was as much fun as hunting? Keeping Sam beside him, driving to Cheektofuckingwaga ghost hunting. Not letting go, not even when Dad wanted him to. Not when Sam wanted him to. Not letting go, not ever.

"You got all the background, Sammy." And quirked his eyebrows. "You did a bunch of the research, you were the one who spotted it. Just took me this long to run it down."

"Dad said to keep me the fuck out of it." He heard the rebuke in his own voice, hated it. Hated that Dad's anger translated so quickly to his own, hated that Dean was caught in the crossfire. A quick startled glance from the driver's side and Sam felt ungrateful, which made him terse. "What? I don't have ears?"

Dean's mouth turned down in a way that he'd probably been practicing in front of a mirror, a move borrowed from Robert De Niro. _No, Dean, I'm not talkin' to you. I'm talking to Dad, but he's not here._

"So? I'm not taking you to the Falls, am I? I'm taking you to interview some old dude _about_ the Falls." Amazing how easily Dean found the middle ground, occupied it, set up a lemonade stand and sold his brother a glass.

"Old people. You always give me old people."

Now a smile, wide and genuine and Sam felt his own mouth twitch in response. "Old people _like_ you, dude. You're an old age pensioner's wet dream. It's like they see you coming and just start yakking their fool heads off. C'mon. Give me the look."

Sam shook his head. "What look?"

And Dean just laughed. "See? You're doin' it right this minute."

If the drive had been five minutes longer, he would have told Dean, Sam thought. He'd been opening his mouth, hand in his pocket on the letter, when Dean strung out expletives like Christmas lights, cut across two lanes of traffic and took the Cheektowaga turnoff.

Antonio Delisle was yellow and decrepit, a newspaper left too long in the sun. Must be shitty getting old, because no matter what fucking look Sam had on his face, manufactured or genuine, Delisle wasn't buying it. Mostly because he had Magoo glasses and couldn't see six inches in front of his melonomatic nose. Only one braided leather button held his cardigan together, carpet slippers worn to bare threads, and he smelled of Scotch mints.

Could be worse.

He clucked his tongue once, and his dentures slid partway out his mouth before he jammed them back in with a surprisingly fast hand, clicking them in place. Sam glanced warily at Dean, who shrugged. "I'm just the driver, Mr. President," Dean prodded lowly, following Sam into the third-floor apartment.

They sat on white furniture embalmed in thick plastic that scrunched like snow when the temperature dipped into the minus digits. Sam had his notebook out already, pen poised. Mr. Delisle settled into a chair and a woman bustled in, too competent to be anything other than hired help. She offered them coffee, which both Winchester boys jumped on like tykes did a trampoline.

Sam negotiated the first part easily, all his remembered facts from months ago coming back smoothly. He'd thought Dad had shot this idea down, but like any good researcher, Sam hadn't thrown away his mental notes. He'd kept them, just in case.

"You were part of the crew in 1969, weren't you?" Delisle blinked, perhaps more obviously because of the enormous glasses.

"Yep, that's what I told your brother on the phone. You know," Delisle leaned forward, gnarled hands twisted on his knees, knobbed like an old oak, "you should really do your own research, son. Having your big brother setting up your homework assignments," and he shook his head. "Really. Stand on your own two feet."

If Sam looked at Dean right then, he might have to kill him, so he just smiled tightly at Delisle and nodded. "He's a big help, Dean. Sometimes he just gets over-excited."

Delisle stared past Sam's shoulder, his eyes landing on Dean; Sam heard his brother shift on the scrunchy seats. "You need to let him stand on his own. No good if you keep picking up the slack."

Time to get Amazing Kreskin back on topic. "What was it like, in 1969? How'd you go about stopping the Falls?" He already knew all this, but needed to ease Delisle into it because Sam suspected the story would get weird pretty quickly. Depended on how comfortable Delisle was with weird as a concept.

"We dammed upriver, right where Goat Island splits the Niagara. Diverted the waters all to the Horseshoe Falls. Took a little while to dry everything out. We needed to find out how badly damaged the structure of the islands was – Luna, Green and Goat, I mean. We wanted to check out the Cave of the Winds, see what happened in '54."

"Cave of the Winds?" Sam was wearing _that face_, the one that got old folks to open up, could feel it tighten like a bad sunburn.

"The cave behind Bridal Veil Falls. Been open for a hundred years, but was always dangerous, and collapsed in '54. Some idea that maybe we could re-open it in '69, but it was too dangerous. You can still take the elevator down, walk on the platforms outside. But you used to be able to get in behind there. Right in behind. All that pressure, though, the erosion. Couldn't rely on it. And there'd be hell to pay if a bunch of tourists got killed when the cave collapsed. That'd really put a damper on tourism, don't ya think?"

Sam nodded eagerly, set his mug down, wrote furiously. He knew that if you were writing, when you weren't making eye contact, people sometimes had an easier time answering you. Had an easier time recalling strange and difficult things.

"And the talus?" Sam asked. "I read that the original plan was to dynamite it out, remove it, so the Falls were more…attractive." He glanced up, checking to see if Delisle was following.

Delisle was white. Whiter than he'd been a few minutes ago, anyway. He moved slightly, held his arms up, made a dry rustling noise like a bag of onions, let his hands drop to his thighs. "That was the plan."

Sam glanced at his brother. Dean's attention was all on Delisle, though. He cleared his throat, pitched his voice young. _Tell me a story_. "The newspapers said that once your crew was in there, they reassessed, but the talus was too big to move." The crew had found nothing out of the ordinary in the cave, maybe. But here. This was too long a pause. The engineer was old, and his natural defenses were eroding. "Is that true, Mr. Delisle?"

Delisle's stare was twenty miles long, somewhere out the window beside him, coffee cooling on the doily-draped end table. No movement, only a slight palsy shake of the hands on his lap. Then he clicked his dentures again. "That's true."

Sam didn't have to do anything. Just kept silent. Here was a man accustomed to hiding, to lying, but not having to hear it so loudly. Difference between yelling in a playground and in a church. Age had kept its secrets. But age also made you bold in some ways, made you say to hell with it. Nothing much to lose.

"I hear there's been some deaths recently," Delisle whispered.

"A lot," Sam verified, steadily wearing away at the crumbling wall.

A nod. Time now. "You wouldn't believe what we…" Sam didn't have to tell Dean to keep quiet; Dean knew. So it dragged on a little longer. _He wants to tell me_, Sam thought. _He needs to let it go._ Delisle looked up, blinking rheumy blue behind lighthouse lenses. "Under the talus, first week. Picked some of the smaller boulders to shift first. Under there."

Sam nodded, set his pen down.

"Bodies," Delisle breathed. "I fought in the Korean War, son. I know death. I know what a field looks like when there's been a battle." The breath he took sawed like a bone whistle. "We found bodies."

"How many?" Sam asked after a moment.

Delisle turned his hands outwards, maybe in supplication. "You get any of the other guys to tell you this?" His stare traveled between the two Winchesters, looking for a connection, maybe. Corroboration.

Dean cleared his throat. "We couldn't find any of the other guys."

Delisle nodded. "We scattered, afterwards. Never wanted to work there again. We heard things." His voice flitted away, then returned softly, a bird too interested in seed to hold back. "How many?" He looked up briefly again, then dropped his gaze to the carpet. "Over forty before I lost count. Hard to know."

"Skeletons?" Sam asked. This was impossible, what he was describing. _Forty bodies before they lost count._ "What…what kind of shape were the bodies in?" He was imagining barrels, he realized, the iron tubs that he'd stuck his head into at the Daredevil Gallery, huge eggs with grisly contents.

"You don't understand," Delisle went on, emphatic. "We found _bodies_. Not bones. It was like they'd fallen asleep. Untouched." He took a shaky breath. "The first three or four, we took up top, buried them at night. No one would've believed us, they'd think we were crazy. And we were all Italians, eh? All good Catholics. But there were more, every day more and more. That was just under the little boulders, too. Under the few we could move without heavy machinery. Can't even imagine what might be under the big rocks. Some…some of those folks were wearing old-fashioned clothes. And there were…there were…little ones. And Indians, too, in buckskin and…" He held a hand to his mouth, shutting himself up in the only way he knew how.

"Where did you bury them?" Dean asked, and Sam risked a glance. His brother was pale, eyes wide. More than forty. Hundreds, probably. Maybe more. Thousands of years. Thousands and thousands of years.

"Unnatural, stopping the Falls like that," Delisle murmured. "We told the bosses that we couldn't move the talus. Our crew manager falsified his report. They believed us." Then his eyes were up again, and sunlight came through the window after a whole day of rain. It lit Delisle from behind, the thin silver filaments on his head sparsely lit up like an orange left to grow mold at the bottom of a locker.

"Where," Dean began again and Sam understood. The crew had disturbed something, just as he'd guessed.

"We buried them on the Three Sisters." He nodded. "In the middle of the night. It's where the Indians made their sacrifices, they say, on the Sisters. It seemed appropriate. We couldn't just leave them, could we?" He actually seemed to want an answer to that, but they were only young men, boys, really, and Delisle looked away. "But there were so many. And…and…"

Sam's mouth was dry. Ghosts, he'd dealt with. And spirits, and poltergeists and all manner of weirdo batty shit sifted from nightmares. This was something bigger. A legend, a myth. A god, maybe. You didn't mess with stuff that big, not when you weren't even out of high school. Leave this kind of shit well enough alone, leave it for adults, priests or hunters.

Except.

And he turned to Dean, who was still too pale, freckles standing out as though they'd been inked on. Delisle was nodding to him. "I can tell. You've heard them, haven't you, son? They were so loud after that. We didn't know if they all wanted buried, if we'd done the right thing or the wrong thing. There were too many of them." His voiced faded, writing on a piece of wet paper. "They were so loud."

Sam tried to get a more precise notion of where Delisle had buried the bodies, but 'on the Sisters' was about as close as they were going to get, those three little islands on the west side of Goat Island. At least they hadn't taken the bodies far. Christ, this was a mess.

They left Delisle pasty and shaken, told his housekeeper to maybe top up his coffee with something a little stronger than half-and-half. Dean didn't wait for Sam, whose long legs weren't a true match for Dean in a hurry, Dean when he didn't want to talk, Dean more than a little freaked out.

He had the car started before Sam slid in, was shaking his head slowly, attention on the rear view mirror, early evening casting his face in shadow, only the liquid shine of his eyes betraying his mood. That and the strain in his low voice, the voice that could melt butter from a hundred paces.

"We gotta figure this out," but it was barely more than a strangled whisper. The crew had only counted up to forty. "That's a whole lot of …" Maybe he'd been thinking 'bodies' or 'mojo' or 'power' or 'magic', but none of those made it past his mouth.

Big, that's what this was.

"This is what you've been hearing? All of them?" Sam asked, though he didn't need to: he knew. He'd been surprised by their voices on that first night, when they'd only been here a couple of days. Then school, and everything he'd been planning, and the voices hadn't mattered any more. Not for him, because Dad said keep Sam away, and because Sam had a different voice urging him over, over, over and he'd hit his runner's wall and gone through. But Dean? Dean didn't say, wouldn't say, but Sam knew for his brother the voices had been getting stronger. _He'd been screaming that night, broken arm, bleeding, still trying to get away from them._

Dean nodded, a streetlight catching his swallow. He threw the car into reverse and extricated them from the narrow street, then negotiated late rush hour onto the highway between Buffalo and Niagara Falls, running along the river that connected and fell between two ocean-big lakes. In between, always in between.

"I'll talk to Dad," Dean said, effectively relegating Sam to the proverbial back seat. "You weren't here, okay?"

"Hey," Sam tucked his notebook back into the pack. "I did the legwork. We can tell him together."

But Dean was shaking his head. "No. Trust me. He's…" and Dean faltered a little, stumbled like a drunk trying to be quiet when a room was too dark. "He's still thinking demon."

"Dean, this isn't a demon."

"Dammit, Sam, I know that!" Thumped the steering wheel once, then rubbed it gently as though he'd hurt the car. "I know that." More quietly, steadying himself, not Sam.

"It's bigger than a demon, Dean. Dad's coming at this all wrong if he thinks this is a demon. It's stronger than that, older than that. It's a fucking thunder god or Worm Ouroboros or some other mythical shit and he thinks it's a bunch of horseshit and it's not. He'll just run right over you with this one. I can explain it to him…" and even though Sam was better at setting up a logical argument, always had been, there was nothing logical about John Winchester and even as the words were coming out his mouth, Sam knew how futile it was.

"He might believe me, if I'm the one who brings it up," Dean said. "Maybe."

Sam slumped in the seat. "He's such an asshole."

"Hey!" Dean warned, staring at him, and Sam shut up. Pointless. Dean would always side with Dad. With a sinking heart, he knew Dean would never tell Dad what they'd just figured out. That Dean would try to handle it himself instead. One of these days, Dad was going to get Dean killed, either through hunting or secrets.

Within the deep pocket of his coat, his hand found the letter again and he thumbed along the tear, found the opening, slid two fingers in. He had to get them out of here. He had to get both of them out of here.

--

_Bit o' Paris Motel, Niagara Falls, November 2006_

Well, _that_ wasn't normal.

But what about Dean had been approaching normal these last few weeks? Months? Since the hospital, since Dean had jerked awake and Dad had fallen dead on the floor?

Longer ago than that. Since Dad's eyes had shone amber, and he'd said...since he'd said – and Sam shut it down there, just slammed his thoughts away like weapons in the Impala's trunk.

So, no, it wasn't normal that Dean was just laying on the bed staring at the ceiling with nothing prompting it but boredom or depression. Sam even looked up to see if there was anything on the ceiling that ought to concern him, came into the room from the outside, where Elise had dropped him off, where he'd just kissed her goodbye, still felt the tingle along every nerve ending, his tie in his knapsack, the motel keys in his hand. Early winter slicing through the room, enough to jolt the dead awake.

Not normal, but not as alarming as other possibilities, not where Dean was concerned.

"Hey," he said, and Dean raised a hand in wan greeting, but didn't otherwise stir. It was getting close to five o'clock, and Sam was hungry. "You go out today?" This was how he'd left Dean this morning, except that he'd thought Dean was asleep. The laptop was open on the table, the screensaver whirling around like some demented sea creature. Unwashed clothes had been moved to a pile on the floor. Dean was dressed. These were signs of activity, surely?

It was the fact that Dean wasn't even pretending anymore, wasn't even capable of faking normal, not on city roads, not alone with his brother in a motel room. Coming unstitched like a badly sewn baseball hit too hard. That was what was so abnormal, what was so upsetting.

Sam set the knapsack on the table beside the laptop. He had the exams to grade, needed to get the test results in before the long weekend or Carcetti would have his head. It was Tuesday and he was running out of time in every sense.

_Maybe just by being here I've prevented it,_ but he didn't believe that, not for a second. It was too easy and when had anything in his life been remotely easy?

"Hey," he repeated, sat on the other bed, looked at his brother in the fading light. Dean hadn't turned on any lights and the room was dim. "Why don't you…" and he reached over, turned on the light, didn't want to fucking lecture, no matter how much Dean deserved it.

Dean recoiled at the light like someone had lifted up his rock. It wasn't a pleasant analogy, and Sam sighed. "Did you go out today?" he asked again, more precisely this time, trying very hard not to sound angry.

Dean sat up, rubbed his eyelids with the tips of his fingers. "No." Short, like a bark. "Maybe." Dropped his hands to his lap and looked over at Sam blearily. "What's the right answer?"

Sam lifted his eyebrows. "Dean?" He grimaced, determined not to start. _Can we not fight? Y'know, half the time we're fightin' and I don't know what we're fightin' about. We're just buttin' heads._ "Dean, I'm starving. Want to go to that pizza place down the street?" Get him the hell out of here, just move him, get him going, except you never knew where that would lead, not now.

Dean nodded in agreement, jumped from the bed, put on his boots silently, but Sam watched his attention land on the stack of exams on the table, watched his eyes narrow. He stood beside the table, laid one hand on the exams, then thumbed through them, mouth tight. "Which one is his?" From bored and sleepy to hunting, just like that.

Sam swallowed, came over, knew what Dean was asking, of course. He handed him Billy Shuter's test and Dean read it end to end, not a word missed or spoken. Then nodded, almost to himself. "This guy's a little freak, isn't he?" he murmured, same sound as a knife being drawn from a hard leather sheath.

"Dean, he's a kid. A troubled kid."

Dean shrugged like he didn't care, cast around for his coat. "A freaky troubled little fucker, that's what he is." He finally looked at Sam, steady, blank as wet cement but not nearly as impressionable. "I'll figure him out. Tell you what. I'll talk to his family, do the background work."

_Right_.

"Listen, Dean," and ended up sighing.

"What? Think I can't handle a pimply little teenager?"

That was actually the trouble, how Dean was _handling_ things, particularly people. "What if he is demon-touched, Dean? Max wasn't exactly easy for you to handle, right?"

Man, what was he trying to do, because as soon as he said it, Dean spun away as though he'd been shot from an angle, but not before Sam saw his face. Dean rolled the exam into a tube, tapped his thigh with it. "Too young to be one of the Mickey Mouse Club, Sammy." Sounded calm, but Sam couldn't see his brother's eyes, and so he had no idea what was whirring away in there.

"We don't know anything about these children, Dean. We don't know shit about them. What the rules are."

Dean did look at him then, eyes straight down south, all the way to China. You could drop a stone in there and never hear it hit bottom. "You remember that, Sam. Remember that. We don't know what the fucking rules are. We don't know how this turns out. Whatever happens, you remember that, okay?"

What the _fuck_ was he talking about now? All secrets and mirrors and smoke screens. It was like Dean had swallowed atomic water and Sam had to watch it scald him from the inside out. "He was my father too," Sam said softly, designed to get some kind of reaction.

Dean's face screwed up and he tossed Billy's paper on the table. "What?"

"You don't see me losing it on major freeways because I'm sad Dad's not here." So much for not picking a fight. "I don't care how fucking guilty you feel, Dean. It was Dad's decision, not yours. As always. Always his decision, every single time."

Sam realized his voice had gone to shout, just like that, was coming out at volume. It was a mistake because it made Dean go quiet, not precisely shutting him up, oh no, not that. Instead, it gave him the high road. The road of reason, made Dean faux rational. _Sam's freaking out again and I get to be the big brother, the sensible one._ Fucking fuel for Dean's long slow burn. Shit.

Though it was like stuffing wet cats into a burlap sack, Sam did it, he gathered his anger – for his father, for the demon, and not surprising that they were so linked, the anger and the man and the demon – into a hard knot that he turned in his mouth like a thirsty man would a pebble. Swallowed it. _Two can play this game, Dean._

Dean stood still, his face utterly calm, thought he understood his role in this.

Was about to get the carpet snatched out from under him. "Why'd you keep the tape, Dean?" Sam asked, same way he'd ask about when the last load of laundry had been done.

At first, Dean looked like he didn't understand what Sam was saying, literally didn't know what language he was speaking. He blinked once, opened his mouth. Tried again. "What're…" a hint of a smile, like he was going for the con. Realized who he was talking to. Sam didn't get conned, not by Dean. "Tape?"

Okay, he'd make Sam say it. "The tape, Dean. The one from the convenience store."

"If you know what it is, you know what's on it." Short, to the point. Walls going up fast, but not allowing anger to show. And that was it, that was the root of Dean's problem. Ignoring the anger, not naming it for what it was.

"I haven't watched it, Dean."

"Go ahead," Dean shot back, and Sam could see how anger was finding Dean: cold. It froze him up like an engine in a Minnesota winter, unplugged in a parking lot overnight. Couldn't turn over.

"You're out of control, Dean. You know it. You almost killed those two boys in Tennessee. Hell, you almost killed that guy yesterday. Would have, probably, if I hadn't pulled you off…"

Dean shook his head like it was a joke, like he could somehow let it slide off his back if he shrugged hard enough. "I wasn't…" And Sam gave him the rope. Dean seemed to realize it, backed off, laughed low in his throat. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I don't?" Keep it cool, keep it cool Sam counseled himself. "Dad made the deal, Dean. Not you. You owe him that. You owe it to him to keep living. That's what he bought for you. It's how you honor him." _I shouldn't have to be telling him this. He should know. Shit, he _does_ know, he just can't--_

And Dean came round quick, all cold and contained, but burning down where he thought Sam couldn't see. Like the water moving so fast across the rock table that you couldn't even tell it was in motion until it fell from the edge. Fast and in Sam's face, all in his personal space, the anger moving swift and cold and deep. "How I _honor_ him, Sam?" Dean repeated, brows coming up. "Sam, you act like he's gone. Like he's at rest somewhere. He's _not_." And broke away with an explosion of breath, the only concession to the effort control was costing him.

Sam could feel his hands shake. Maybe from the struggle of not giving in to his usual quick anger, but he didn't think so. He'd underestimated Dean, and it was a mistake that most never repeated, usually because they were dead. The motel room was suddenly painful, the air smarted eyes like weak tear gas. "It was his deal to make, Dean. His. You don't take this on-"

"Sam," Dean shook his head. "Sam-" It was a warning. Cease and desist. _Don't make me say this, don't make me blow up. _Dean had already hit Sam once for bringing up their father and his memory and what it was doing to Dean, but Sam didn't care now. Didn't like taking Dean's wicked right hook, but he would. If it would end things, he would.

"Dean, you gotta deal with this, man, you gotta-"

Gloves off. Sam could actually see Dean's control break. "I gotta _what_, Sam? What is it you think I should be doing? Because I'll tell you: we should be figuring out how to get Dad back from wherever he is, how to actually put him to rest, because when I think…" and here he stumbled, but not for long, like hitting a pothole at speed, you just felt the lurch and kept right on going. "People say the word 'hell' like they know what it means, but that's where he is and we're just sitting here…" glanced at Sam and Sam had one split second to brace himself because Dean was going for the jugular, wasn't going to stop, "we're just sitting here doing nothing. Wait, I take that back. Not you. You, Sam, are getting lucky with your hot teacher and you tell me something: How the fuck does _that_ honor Dad's memory?"

"Dean-" but Sam had no idea how to answer that, wondered if he was asking Dean to stop.

But Dean wasn't stopping, once started. "You have no idea, Sam. You have no idea how to honor Dad, so don't give me any of your crappy college philosophy or half-baked psychoanalysis. You're banging a crush from high school so you don't have to think about it, and that's fine," brows arched again, hands outspread like he didn't give a shit, smile on face, and it was _terrible_. "But don't think you know how to _honor_ him; you'd have to know him for that. You'd have to know what it was like for him. After you left. What it was like."

Dean faced him down, held Sam's swimming stare till Sam looked away, because Dean _had_ him. Dead to rights. Sam had no idea what it had been like.

That was that. Sam had asked for it, and Dean had given it to him and it hurt way more than he'd ever imagined it could. He stood looking at the floor, head pounding, as Dean snatched his coat from the chair and slammed the door behind him.

And, yes, yes, he wanted to fuck Elise Simon worse than almost anything else in the whole world because she saw things in him that Dean and John _never_ had. Saw that he was good and whole and not messed up beyond anyone's ability to fix.

Only a moment before the Impala roared to life and the headlights swept the window, leaving Sam more alone than he'd felt in years.

--

_Niagara Falls Memorial Medical Center, April 2001 _

He had to ask three times, not knowing how to find someone in a hospital when they weren't bleeding out in the emergency room or intubated in intensive care. Sam didn't even know that there were happy bits to hospitals, colorful and cheery, full of smiles and relief and balloons and hope. Up to 'Maternal Care' and he realized in the elevator that he'd come empty handed.

Word had spread through the school like wildfire: a little girl, no one knew the name, everyone just fine. Sam didn't know how he felt, scrambled maybe, lit up emergency flare bright. Joy, he named it, but didn't think that was entirely accurate. It was what everybody said you were supposed to feel, though. Joy.

He might not know about maternity wards, but he knew how to get in and out of hospitals, shit, could probably sneak in any time day or night, take out half their pharmaceutical stores while he was at it. But he'd phoned ahead, thought he'd make up some elaborate story so he could find out what room she was in, but it had been ridiculously easy, didn't involve any subterfuge, was all _legal_, somehow. On the phone he'd asked, What room is Ms. Simon in? And right back at him: Do you want to talk to her? Well, yeah. That's an option?

But she'd been sleeping, and Sam had spoken to some guy named Danny who'd said that he should swing by during visiting hours when Elise would be awake, though he couldn't make any promises about the baby. This guy? _He_ sounded happy. A guy with an accent that recalled 'gators and chewing tobacco and burning bones in swamps. None of that Danny's fault. Way more than just some guy, of course.

Out the elevator, third floor, Sam was greeted by a wall of close-fit subway tiles with names and little footprints: Abigails and Jessicas, Chads and Jacobs. Rows of dates. Sam stared, thinking about all those babies, born here. All that ridiculous joy, smiling parents, tears of happiness and hope. Had he been born somewhere like this? Was there a tile somewhere in a Lawrence hospital? Baby Sammy? He reached out with one hand, touched a finger to a name, Baby Boy, two dates. Nameless, here and gone. Sam could find sorrow anywhere, what a fucking gift.

He shouldn't be here, he didn't belong here, thinking these thoughts, bringing his own particular brand of darkness.

But it was too late: his name was called from the end of the hallway, not Ms. Simon, but _that guy_.

"Sam?" The tall lanky blond jogged up to Sam as Sam stared, speechless, like a big mute. "Sam Winchester?" he clarified with that cracker accent, slow as an August afternoon, teeth so white they hurt to look at. As tall as Sam. Taller. Broader. Eyes green like the new leaves budding outside the window, kind face, deep dimples, pulled in a smile.

Sam nodded once, looked down and saw the outstretched hand, manly as all shit. "Elise told me all about you, Sam. Getting your mail." Eyebrows up. "You've been getting a lot of mail. Don't know if you're as excited as Elise, but you should be."

John had taught them how to shake hands; in theory, Sam knew how to do it. All the way in, web to web, grip hard, but not to hurt. Firm. One quick pump, then release. Somehow, this one nicety had been important to their dad, he'd even made them practice till they got it right. First impressions constructed like sandcastles, worn away with tide.

"Yeah, yeah," he stuttered, immediately eroding the trained handshake with juvenile stammers. "I'm Sam. Thanks." He ducked his head, nervous. "For taking my mail."

"I'm Danny." And Ms. Simon's husband – Mr. Simon? – looked over his shoulder. "Listen, she's asleep again, Sam. Rough first night, you know?" And Sam didn't know, had no fucking idea, felt himself start to panic. What the fuck had he been thinking? He was an interloper, an intruder on their private happiness.

Danny's eyes were disingenuous, open. Happy, goddamn him, genuinely so. Sam clamped his lips shut, felt a quick nod coming on. _Speak, goddamn it, you have the gift of speech._ "I, uh. That's okay, I just wanted to-" But Danny had him by the elbow, was pulling him down the shiny corridor.

"No, seriously. You came all this way and my mom's going to be here this evening. Things are gonna get crazy. So you should see Elise. She'd want to see you." Dragging him down the hallway and Sam let himself be dragged because he wanted to see her, didn't he, had been missing her like crazy, the school fucking empty and sinister without her.

"No, really," he managed, but that was all.

They stopped in the doorway and Sam peered past Danny's shoulder. She lay propped up on pillows, hair across her face, pale curls down past her one bare shoulder. Eyes closed, face a little flushed. He couldn't say anything, but Danny took one step in, and Sam grabbed the cloth sleeve of his jean jacket. "No, Danny. Please. Let her-" but that caught in his throat because the blankets in the bassinet beside the bed squirmed suddenly and Sam realized that was a _baby_. Could see the little cap of white blond curls, fingers waving tiny and pink as cocktail shrimp.

"Oh," he breathed, and Danny smiled so large it was something only seen on late night stupid human tricks, hey, watch me split my face ear to ear – and then Danny had the baby in his arms, was showing it to Sam, who just blinked stupidly at it. Like that Star Trek episode where the guy in the wheelchair blinked to communicate. _Hi, baby_, Sam blinked.

"Isn't she beautiful?" Danny whispered. And she was. She was beautiful.

After a moment of looking, trying to figure out how anyone could be so fucking small, Sam heard an unimaginable question. "You want to hold her?" and Danny didn't wait for Sam's answer, told Sam to support her head, mentioned that she was like a football, called the baby his little pigskin and Sam hardly heard any of it, realized he was shaking so badly he might drop it. Her. The baby.

"We're calling her Chloe," Danny explained once the tiny thing was settled uncertainly in Sam's arms, stroking the top of her head with the back of one finger.

Two minutes, then Sam handed her back, thanked Danny, made some excuse, had to go, had to get out of there, couldn't stay a second longer.

He was running by the time he got outside, ran all the way up 10th, long legs eating up pavement like it was nothing. It was running or crying, but he couldn't run fast enough, would never be able to run fast enough for this.

He'd been lying to himself. All these months he'd been saying that he knew this for what it was, just a crush, just a stupid little crush and it would fade, it would go away.

And it hadn't, it hadn't faded, it had been _smashed_. Just like that. Because her life was full and it had no more room for anything else. That guy, that beaming nice guy, and the baby more perfect than anything god could make even on a good day.

One look from her had made Sam feel like a real person, a whole person. And there would be no more from where that came from.

He felt as though he'd been kicked hard in the stomach, that something essential had been thieved straight out of his chest. When he could run no more, he stopped, traffic speeding by, the grassy verge green with spring rain, his runners soaked right through. It was over, all of it, and this was one less tie holding him down.

That's what he told himself as he walked slowly back to the apartment. One less thing. _I can do this. I am strong enough._

But he was not _whole_, and now he knew it.

--

_Niagara Falls State Park & Deveaux Park, Niagara Falls NY, November 2006_

They drove around for two hours, looking for Dean. She had a sensible car with heated seats and a good sound system. Sam liked the car, for all that he smacked his head on the frame every time he got in or out.

Finally, just at the point when Sam thought he might actually tell Elise everything, that he might have some sort of minor breakdown, Sam's phone rang. "Hey," he breathed into the receiver, nodded to Elise, who pulled over, engine idling. They were down by the Falls, scouring the parking lots. Sam didn't want to be there, didn't want Dean to be there. They hadn't seen any sign of the Impala, not here, not in any of the parking lots surrounding taverns and strip clubs and hotel bars. "You should turn on your phone. Where are you?"

"_Could ask you the same question."_ Dean sounded a little slurred, maybe four shots up, maybe more. Sam didn't judge. Couldn't, not after what had been said.

"We're driving around, playing spot the Impala."

"_I hid it under a bushel."_

"Thought you were supposed to let it shine?" Fine. Enough of the heart-to-heart. _Let's dance, Dean. We're good at this._ "Hey, man. Where are you?"

"_Back at the motel, princess. You out on a date?" _

Man, Dean kept his knives sharp. "Yeah, Dean, that's just what I'm doing." Though he recognized Dean's game as keep-away, he fell right into it. It was hard, spending so much time with someone you'd grown up with, hard to avoid all the worn patterns, grooves worn smooth because they _worked_.

"_Well, don't hurry home on my account. Picked up a bottle of Jack and watching a game on TV." _

Sure enough, Sam could hear the TV in the background, wondered how much of the bottle was already gone. Dean was safe, though, safe enough. "We good?" Sam asked, tried to make it sound casual, like it was something normal, what they'd talked about, what Dean had flung at him. Talking about Dad in hell and what they were going to do about it.

"_Sure. We're good, course we're good. But if you're back before midnight, shit, before morning, I'm gonna lose all faith in the Winchester mojo."_

Great. Dean, well-lubricated, talking about Sam's mojo. He wasn't at the Falls, Sam assured himself. "I'll get Elise to drop me-"

"_Mean it, Sam. I don't wanna talk anymore. I'm done talking. I'm turning in. If you do come back, don't wake me the fuck up."_

"All right, all right. I'll see you soon." And turned off his phone. He looked over at Elise, who stared expectantly back.

"What's it going to be?" she asked. "Rock, paper, scissors?"

Sam laughed. "Swing past the motel, would you? I just want-" _I don't trust him. He could be anywhere. _

Elise didn't dig, though, just slipped the car into gear and pulled out of the darkened parking lot.

The Impala was in front of the motel, washed clean in the fine drizzle, gleaming black as licorice. The room lights were off. Dean was probably sleeping, it wasn't yet eleven, Sam had to teach tomorrow and it was the last day before Thanksgiving. Anything could happen tomorrow, probably would – blood and the gym and the fucking turkey – and Sam didn't have a plan. Sam didn't know which direction the shit was coming from.

Sam couldn't talk to Dean about this, and definitely couldn't talk to Elise about it. He was alone.

"Well?" she asked, holding out two fingers in a V, like a peace sign. Like a pair of scissors.

"Rock," he said simply, showing her a fist.

She turned, a dimple pulling at one side. "Which one's rock again?"

"Your house. Paper is the motel. Scissors the school."

Rock won and Sam wondered if she'd done that on purpose. Didn't matter.

Didn't matter who was doing what on purpose or by accident, because he followed her into the house and they didn't turn on any lights. He could see well enough in the dark, already knew what filled them both, lit them from within like paper lanterns. Not just lust, complicated as that was. _Need_. She needed him. She saw him, liked what she saw, and she whispered into his neck as she stood on the stairs, said so: _I need you so much, Sam, please, just-_. She turned, suddenly, her hand in his, kissed him fiercely. He didn't hold back, and he'd been needing this for at least as long, longer.

He took off his shirt on the stairs, Elise helping with the buttons, pulling off the fabric like dustcovers protecting fine furniture, her hand on the side of his face, now, mouths meeting need. Not enough. Good, but not enough.

He tried not to squash her on the carpeted steps, to be gentle, but it was awkward, shit, they could at least make it up the stairs, couldn't they? And though it wasn't the most graceful thing Sam had ever done, he eased his weight from her, levered himself up on his good arm, still unwilling to disengage from her mouth, which was playing all sorts of havoc with his nervous system, was causing malfunctions and shortages and fireworks and red alerts. Funhouse mirrors and the Tilt-a-Whirl and sparklers and sugar donuts, _fuck_, everything that spun and turned and made you feel ill and giddy and _happy_.

Legs like rubber, unwilling to be more than an inch from her, not even, he pulled her insignificant weight into his arms as he stood and her legs curled around his hips, a little tight package strapped to him like a suicide bomber's explosives, his mind zipping from thought to thought like a hummingbird. Because of how she rested right against his pelvis, he thought he might just die before he got to the top of the stairs, that his whole body might just implode with a white flash.

Despite this, he managed to hang on, barely, his willpower holding for a little while still, not completely worn away by the steady flow of desire, years of accumulated _need_. Made it to the top of the stairs, knew where the bedroom was, had already scoped it on a trip to the bathroom that night when Dean hadn't shown up, uncertain when he'd ever get to use such specialized knowledge.

Now, it would seem.

Slowly, he lowered her to the bedspread, his mouth traveling the length of her neck, telling her to be still for a moment while he got the lay of the land. Her land, the geography of her body. Slow, he cautioned himself. _I'm no teenager looking for an early exit. I have exper_—and his constructed poise was blown all to hell as she pulled off her shirt and there seemed to be no point in going slow at all then. His t-shirt off, jeans kicked to the floor, socks off—always socks off, had learned that one early—and his hands looked enormous on her, touching her here and there and round back, between things, around things. Into things.

Breathing going all wonky and she pressed against his length, her hands exploring with purpose, but without hurry. He kissed her open-mouthed, hot and sure, a knee between her two now, her hands finished their explorations, now guiding like one of those tugboats in the harbor, guiding the big -- and had to shut up the internal voice, because he was going to start laughing any second, and then she did first, a little burble of laughter that caught him in an exposed place.

"God, you're beautiful," he said to her, sliding between, seeing the gleam of her teeth in the darkness.

"I was just thinking the same thing about you," eyes dark in the night. "You're beautiful, Sam Winchester," and he'd never been told that before. You're funny, you're smart, you're strong. These things. But not beautiful, and not the way she meant it, which he knew was from the inside. Beautiful.

Not evil after all.

And that was what he was thinking as everything shimmered white hot, as everything washed away like a Louisiana levee. He made a sound then, a cry, near to pain, awfully close. But not quite. Because it was all too beautiful, everything, and he was too full, and it all needed to come out sometime.

--

TBC


	7. Ellipsis

**Chapter Seven**/Ellipsis

**Sermon: **Gen, PG-13. Lousy with OCs (What? You're gonna have a multi-chapter piece _without_ them?) WIP, curtain comes down at Chapter 10. Horror/drama

'**Verse**: present-day action takes place between _Crossroad Blues_ up to _Croatoan_.

**Glory and exultation:** Kripke, the man in black, the fella with all the chips, the dude in the Big House. Thanks, however, go to the ever-vigilant and totally not-crying jmm0001. Lemmypie is catching all my Canuck and working through plot points as though it's fun.

**Revelations**: Niagara Falls, 2001 – Sam is secretly preparing his getaway to Stanford while Dean explores the possibility that the ghosts haunting the Falls are a result of the reburial of ancient bodies found under the American Falls in 1969. In 2006, Sam embarks on an affair with the teacher that helped him get into Stanford while Dean struggles to make sense of their father's deal with the yellow-eyed demon. At the school, another child with special abilities sets his sights on his new supply teacher: Mr. Winchester.

--

_Bit O' Paris Motel, Niagara Falls, NY, November 2006_

Last thing he remembered was that the Lakers were up by ten, fans going wild. Last thing. First thing: Sam's voice, louder than it had any right to be. This first noise of the morning had to fight its way through a Jack-inspired haze. "You want the shower, Dean?"

Followed by the sound of the zipper on Sam's duffle, bare feet slapping across cold bathroom tile, exasperated sigh, plastic rattling around in a toiletries bag. Sam back in the room, _louder faster larger_ than he needed to be. "Hey, sleeping beauty." A hard shake on his shoulder and Dean felt a little like dying. Felt like maybe he _was_ dying and Sam just didn't realize it, the big obtuse fucker.

He couldn't quite form a response to that, not one that made any sense. Fuck, his head hurt, he felt bruised all over, a turtle without its shell beaten with a club. Sam didn't wait around, and Dean soon heard water hitting the plastic shower curtain, the door open a crack and, after a moment, Sam humming.

Sam never hummed.

Dean rolled over on his back, rubbing eyes with whiskey-scented fingertips before peering suspiciously at the sunlight inching blue through the window. This being New York State in November, he instinctively knew 'sun' meant 'cold'. Rain last night, remembered coming out the liquor store, bottle in hand, quick swig before he was even in the car, rain beading then running off him, filming on the car roof, stroking his hand across the Impala's blackness, fingers dripping, and it being so cold he thought maybe everything would turn to ice.

Sam couldn't hold a tune to save his life. Dean couldn't figure out if it was Aretha Franklin, the theme song to that stupid Orange County show or Raffi's _Baby Beluga_. Just Sam, goofy with getting laid.

Dean groaned, forced himself out of bed, relieved to see that Sam – in his addled, post-coital state – had made coffee. Dean didn't care if Sam was freebasing coke with a dozen underage hellspawn as long as he remembered to put on coffee. First mouthful Dean sloshed between his teeth, hoping to get rid of the fuzz, used his second to swallow down a handful of Tylenol.

"Sam, hurry up," he shouted through the fluorescent-lit opening, steam billowing out. He had to piss something fierce, smelled like he was leaking sour mash through his pores, and all the hot water was going to be gone.

Sam was soon out, wet, pulling on a shirt, good jeans, bent down a little to look Dean in the face, about three inches too close. Biting back a grin. Dean edged by him, but it was like avoiding a silverback gorilla in a Gap change room. "Dean," Sam started, all forced calm and downplayed cheeriness and Dean just groaned.

"C'mon man, seriously," but Sam didn't budge.

"Last day before Thanksgiving, dude. We need to talk. We need a plan."

_Yeah, fine fucking time to be talking plan, Sammy. _ "Sam, you stop me now and I'll fido your fire hydrant leg. Move."

Reluctantly, Sam took a step to the side, gestured with one arm, the cast only slightly damp.

Dean took his time, but getting lucky somehow made Sam more patient and kind to his brother, which drove Dean to distraction. By the time Dean was back out, Sam was fully dressed, looked teacherly, had a couple of muffins on the table that had appeared from some secret food cache Dean had yet to find.

Trust Sam to go for a teacher. His old teacher. That was pretty twisted, even for perpetually screwed-up Sam. Dean wondered what this Ms. Simon – Elise this, Elise that – looked like, would bet she looked like Jessica. Still. Sam was happy. _At least one of us is. We deserve it, shit we deserve it._

Stood very still, shivery in the way a lukewarm shower made you in November, thinking about taking happiness when it presented itself. He wanted so badly to keep moving, to stay under the radar, to watch out for Sammy. And this? This didn't fit, this Elise Simon, this wasn't staying under the radar, this wasn't laying low, this wasn't not attracting attention. But…oh god, but hadn't Sam earned this, after Jessica, after all the visions? Wasn't this looking out for Sammy in a way that their father had never thought about, never valued?

_Why do we always have to solve everyone's problems?_

"It's gonna happen today," Sam said, sitting at the table, pushing the ripped brown paper bakery bag towards his brother, and Dean heard the little tremor of tension, held in check. For all that Sam was good at keeping physical things close, he was terrible at holding in the emotional ones. Sometimes, Dean hated this job. Hated _the_ job.

"Maybe I should come in with you," Dean mumbled, picking at the top of the muffin. There were raisins in it, and his stomach gave an uncooperative roll like it was trying to get away.

Sam let out a short croupy laugh, stared hard enough that Dean busied his attention elsewhere. "How? They have rules, Dean."

Dean shrugged. "You're teaching Law, right?" He let a persuasive grin creep onto his face; it had been forever since he'd actually _smiled_. "Just tell them that I'm an ex-con. I'll do the whole scared-straight thing with them."

On some weird plane of existence, that was _funny_.

But the look Sam gave him was long and searching and Dean couldn't stand it. "I'm not doing that. I'm not letting you do that." Hard to know exactly what that tone meant. That Sam didn't like to think of Dean as a convict? That Dean might actually scare Sam's students shitless rather than straight? Dean was too hungover to figure it out. He needed more coffee.

"I could tell them I'm an undercover cop. That make you feel better?"

Sam shook his head lightly, not meeting Dean's eyes.

The relative inefficiency with which Dean's body was converting caffeine into coherent thought made him testy. "Or I could just let you handle it yourself. I could do that. Is that what you want, Sam? Handle all this yourself? Is that how we work?"

Sam got up, checked the time and, apparently judging it late, took his jacket from the open closet. "Listen, it's not that…"

"Well, yeah, whatever, man." Dean stared up at Sam, who looked like he could just walk out into that world, just open the door…and disappear. Could vanish into the crowd, fit in, be there in a way that- Dean closed his eyes, fought the surge of panic. "No problem. I'll leave my phone on. But I gotta get out of this room. I can't stay here all day, Sam, no matter how much you're thinking I'm gonna kick the shit out of the first asshole I see."

Sam nodded once, not wanting to escalate things, Dean could clearly see, not wanting to revisit last night's accusation. Matter at hand: dead squeeze on gym floor, brains splattered to kingdom come. Dad in hell? Time enough for that later. "Okay. But I don't want to take the class on a field trip to the jail, so…be careful." He tried to smile and Dean could see that was a particular effort too.

_Man, he's so proud of me now._

"I'll check out some stuff, maybe at the library," and he'd rather set his head on fire than step back into that library, "and I'll call later on. But," Sam was almost out the door by this point, and Dean had to clamp down on the urge to pull him back, to just stuff him in the car and get the hell out. "You leave your phone on, too. I'll be all over that school if anything starts to get weird. You know that."

Sam nodded. "I know that."

Dean downed his coffee and it hit his stomach like a line drive straight down the middle. "Hey," and he tried the smile again and it felt just as foreign, but what he was going to ask next was important. Winchesters were adept at going immediately to the bad news, less comfortable stopping at what was good. "What time'd you get in last night?"

An evasive sliding of the eyes. "Late," with a little smile. "Don't," Sam held up a hand, "don't make it all smutty with your commentary, okay?"

Important, was it? And Dean didn't _quite_ get what was going on, didn't have it in him to understand how deep these waters ran, and so he invested his languid responding shrug with as much sexual innuendo as he could manage, which was considerable, a shrug that made Sam roll his eyes and tell him to shut up and things were better between them.

"Happy trails," Dean murmured to the closed door.

Surprising even himself, Dean was ready to go in fifteen minutes, dressed in his most presentable suit – well, his only suit, thank god – and with one of those business cards he'd had printed up at a Kinko's listing him as a freelance journalist.

A kind of penance, forcing himself to do this. No, real penance would involve that fucking library, Dean thought. He pulled up the online business directory for Niagara Falls, checked a few numbers, made a couple of calls, then drove the Impala to an area of the city that he'd never been to before, Devils Hole. It screamed money and privilege.

The house was buff sandstone, surrounded with wrought iron and rhododendrons, cement lions ineffectively guarding the entrance, glass on the front door etched with some flowers Dean thought might be iris, but he'd never been that up on decorative plants; he only knew the ones that signaled protection, or unquiet spirits, or demonic activity.

He rang the doorbell, waited on the balls of his feet. Sincerely hoped that he wasn't still pushing whiskey from his pores. The woman who answered the door was what his father would have called handsome – an old fashioned word to encompass women of a certain age, moneyed, confident, and good-looking. The sort of woman on which Dean's considerable charms had absolutely no long-term effect. Despite this, he smiled. Short-term charm was the card to play.

"Good morning. Mrs. Shuter?" Lifted his brows, aimed for sincere and weary; latter was a cakewalk, first was near impossible.

She nodded and leaned on the doorframe, effectively blocking him. Her hair was aggressively blonde, professionally done, caught back in a loose ponytail. "You must be the reporter."

"Yes, ma'am. _Realtor's Digest_. Your husband's office said that he was working from home today?" Made it a question, just in case she would offer resistance. Women like this preferred to be in charge – always wanted to be on top – and it was absolutely no skin off Dean's nose to let her have her way if it meant he got in the door.

She smiled, frosted lipstick stretching over perfect teeth, eyes sweeping him up and down, knowing that she'd have him at the shoes. Dean didn't have a decent pair of shoes in his wardrobe, always wore the boots. He'd once screwed a woman who worked in a high-end jewelry store; she said that you could always tell a lot about a person by their shoes. She'd still fucked him, even with his steel-capped boots.

After a moment's hesitation, Mrs. Shuter opened the door and led him into the large foyer, clad completely in white marble and featuring huge framed photographs of tropical beaches – white sand, azure waves, instant melanoma. The biggest of the photographs featured two blonde girls giggling, smiles whiter than the beaches, idiotic and charming star-shaped sunglasses pushed up onto their foreheads. She caught him looking and her smile widened, proud.

Dean held back from running a finger around the inside of his white starched collar. Man, he hated wearing a tie. Besides, no need to draw any attention to his bruised knuckles and still-healing cuts, so he kept his hands down, gripped the notebook he held in one hand. Hated doing this without Sam, who was so much better at it.

His was a shoddy disguise, a theater seamstress's attempt to create a reasonable facsimile of 'Reporter', and Dean caught his breath, standing in the opulence of the foyer, faking his way, always faking his way, hardly knowing what was real anymore.

Take a breath. _Easy does it_, he told himself as Mrs. Shuter gestured for him to follow her into what she called 'the study'. She slid back double pocket doors, and Dean swallowed, looked down. By the time he looked up, he'd collected himself, had on a big hearty grin, knew instinctively that Willem Shuter Sr. liked guys with construction-grade boots and big grins and a good handshake.

Shuter was tall and broad, looked as though he enjoyed a Germanic diet of beer and bratwurst, met Dean's outstretched hand with a 'Hey, good to see ya!' like he already knew Dean.

They settled in and Mrs. Shuter – Daphne, call her Daphne, Shuter boomed – got Dean a cup of coffee and was maybe mollified by the true gratitude Dean was able to imbue his acceptance of the mug. She slid the doors closed behind her, but not before reminding her husband that he she'd arranged an eleven o'clock doctor's appointment.

"Nice house you got here," Dean said, taking in the floor to ceiling shelves filled with matching sets of books – encyclopedias and bound journals with gilded titles. Books that weren't read, were only for show. More fakery, display copies. "Lived here long?"

Shuter nodded, and proceeded to bring up pictures on his computer screen, tilting it toward Dean, explaining in painstaking and endless detail the process of building the house some fourteen years ago, a wedding present for Daphne. Shuter detailed the type of stone and the quarry it'd come from, the hassles with the contractors, the stonemasons, the bricklayers, the framers. Dean thought that maybe he'd catch a few zees while Shuter explained the zoning issues he'd faced. Shuter was _nice_, was a big bluff man's man and Dean wondered how Daphne could bear to be in the same room with him for more than thirty minutes at a stretch.

"Where were you before this house?" he managed to insert between Shuter's plumbing woes and the botched job the Italian tile guys had made of the master bedroom's ensuite.

Shuter's face slipped a little, his broad jolly features slackened, then quickly rearranged. "I used to live in Detroit. There was a fire. We moved here afterwards, me and the baby. Met Daphne at an exhibition of her photographs, just when I was setting up my real estate firm here. Worked out well. Now we have three wonderful children-"

An abbreviated shout sounded from somewhere in the recesses of the cavernous house, almost a scream, shock and anger, not terror, Dean thought. Daphne. One of the wonderful children suddenly slid back the pocket door with a hard thump, and Dean half turned in his seat to see what was going on.

A tall-ish kid, maybe sixteen, spotted and pale, hair lank, strange clothes hitched up too high, too tight, a dog collar loose about the neck, heavy leather cuffs, tight black studded belt. Eyes like dirty dishwater before you pulled the plug. The kid lifted his chin.

"I thought you were in bed, son," Shuter said, coming to a half stand. "Mom's arranged for you to go in to see the doctor." He faltered a little as the kid didn't take his pale stare from Dean. "Billy, this is a reporter who's writing a feature on me for-"

With that, the boy shook hair into his eyes like he was pulling blinds. "I didn't do it-"

Daphne joined them, shaking, not looking anywhere near contained or reasonable or handsome. Her hair was loose from its ponytail, hanging in her face, sticking to her lipstick. Dean's eyes narrowed, attention veering from Daphne's lipstick to Billy's face and back.

"You little bastard," she stammered, voice low and thin, air forced through a tiny opening.

"Wasn't me." Billy looked to the floor, scuffed a toe against the leg of the nearest chair.

Daphne rounded on him and Shuter came out from behind the desk. "That's enough, both of you. We have a guest. Billy? What's goin' on, buddy?"

Billy didn't have a chance to answer; Daphne was too quick, too angry. "He was on my computer. Now the files are gone, all of them, wiped clean from the memory. All the digital work, Willem," Daphne went on. "From the Caymans, just getting ready to send them out to _Condé Nast_. I have a deadline, Willem. A deadline! I told him not to-" And Shuter put an arm around her, shot Billy a questing look over his shoulder that Dean didn't quite get – half commiseration, half accusation – and led her out the door, trying to calm her with low practiced murmurs. With one hand, Shuter slid the door home, trying to provide a buffer between his wife and his son, trying to shield private from public.

Billy looked at Dean, cocked his head to the side. "Reporter?" Like he didn't quite believe it, wanted to see the goods.

Dean nodded his head, taking stock. _Troubled kid my ass_, he thought. "_Realtor's Digest_. Doing a profile on your dad."

"Right." Outside the doors, they could hear Daphne shouting, crying.

_He looks pleased with himself_. Dean watched as Billy's eyes slid back to him. Pale and pitiless, like nothing was there, the flat gaze of a shark.

"She's careless with shit like that." And Billy smiled as though daring Dean to say anything more on the subject.

_That exam of Sam's_, Dean thought_, he's taunting us. And what Sam said about that first day: Says he killed his mother, what a little assho—_

Billy's brow scrunched up in horror or surprise, some weird mix of the two, stared at Dean with revulsion. Dean put down his pen and paper, thought: _What the fuck?_

Billy backed up, shook himself, took a deep breath. "You're not a reporter. How do you know about her?"

"I'm sorry?" Dean asked, trying to buy time, trying to figure out what was going on, wished that he'd had about a gallon more coffee. What the hell can this kid do? Because Max had made things move, and Andy could tell people what to do and Sam could --- _holy shit. This kid can hear me. Shut up, Winchester. Shutupshutupshutup…_

"Hey, Billy," and Shuter came back into the study, apparently unaware of the way Billy had backed up all the way to the far side, staring at the _Realtor's Digest_ reporter with mute indignation, all trace of mockery gone for the moment. Unaware of the widened eyes of the reporter, the way Dean had gone still and tense. "Daphne's a little upset, so maybe give her a bit of space, okay? I'll drive you to the doctor's."

Billy shook himself, tore his eyes away from Dean. "No, it's okay, Dad. I'm feeling better now. It was just some weird flu thing. I'm going to go to school." He stared at Dean again, deliberate. "I have Law this afternoon. Want my test scores back from Mr. Winchester."

And Shuter said something jokey on top of that, but Dean didn't hear him because it was taking everything he had to make his racing, troubled mind perfectly blank. Couldn't, because at the sound of 'Mr. Winchester', had an image of Sam this morning, the stack of papers on the table, Sam with the tie, Sam going out the door. _Gonna be today, and we don't have a plan._

There it was, back again, the mocking smile, the eyes veiled with listless malevolence, a product of boredom more than anything else. Don't…don't…but of course, it was impossible, because in thinking _what should I think of? What's safe?_ there it was, Dad, yellow-eyed, _You, and all the children like you_, and Dean heard a little rasping choke, but couldn't look at Billy.

Shuter stood close to his son, put a hand on his shoulder. "You okay, son?"

Billy shrugged him off. "I'm fine, I should get going. Borrow the Beamer?" And Shuter fished in his pocket for the keys. Dean heard them rattling and imagined his own keys in his hand, just imagined them turned over and over, the weight of them, the feel of them clicking together, ran an inventory and that's all he concentrated on until Billy was out the door.

Shuter came around to the desk again, hearty and hale as the Captain on Gilligan's Island. "Now, where were we?" he asked and Dean felt a bead of sweat roll down the side of his face. That was the wrong question. Not where were they, but what now?

--

_Three Sisters, Niagara Falls NY, April 2001_

The old fart couldn't have been more specific, could he? No, Delisle had only waved that wax paper hand, blinking big eyes. The Three Sisters. Yeah, they were tiny little islands, barely more than rocky outcroppings joined to Goat Island by a boardwalk over swiftly moving shallow water, but if you were trying to find where bodies had been buried more than thirty years prior? Yeah, big enough.

It was too dark really, and though Dean had a flashlight, he couldn't dig and hold the flashlight at the same time. One of those miner's lights, strapped to his forehead, that's what he needed, and the image made him laugh. _Concentrate_, he told himself, because he could hear it start. _Over_, the voices hushed, just under the rush and boom of water. _Over, over, over_. Dean straightened his back, pulled up his collar, wished he'd brought gloves because even though the snow was long gone, it was still cold in April.

He'd left Dad dozing in front of the TV, Sam holed up with a stack of books and that weird Toad kid who always looked at Dean as though he was going the thump the boy. Studying for god alone knew what, as if Sam needed to study for anything. Better that Sam wasn't here; Dean needed to keep Dad happy. Well, needed to keep him not angry, that was as much as he might hope for with this job.

_Fuckers, just shut up, would ya? _

Flashed the light around, looking for any markers, twisted trees, cairn stones, anything. Maple, basswood, hemlock, walnut. Mistreated stretches of winter-burned grass and asphalt paths, the ubiquitous dandelions and crane's bill reappearing after a long sleep.

No convenient Italian marble headstones, set by Delisle and his friends, nothing etched with…shit. Dean looked up.

The rowan wasn't a big tree, but he recognized its spear-shaped leaves just starting to unfurl. European rowan – wood to make wands, ward evil. Planted over graves to keep unquiet spirits from wandering. Not native to these parts and this was the only rowan he could see anywhere on the small series of islands perched on the shallow dolomite ridge, running elliptically in the river's flow. Not much of an indicator, but better than nothing. Delisle hadn't mentioned rowan, but maybe one of the other guys had planted it.

It was hard going, tedious, which wasn't exactly the right frame of mind to be doing this work, because he'd always tended to go off in a reverie when doing repetitive physical labor and that was the same thing as leaving a door ajar tonight.

It was hard going, and the shovel slipped from his fingers, fell to the hard dark ground. Dean stood quietly for a moment, not thinking anything. He needed a rest. He was sweating despite the cold, but he didn't feel chilled, not really. The water was so loud. It was so near, and coming nearer, the dark unspooling of time rushing past, at his feet now, somehow, mineral scent in his nostrils, wide to catch it all.

So fast and near and easy. Why pay money at a place like Dazzleland to see bright lights and feel the pulse of adrenaline when it was right here? Bright and dark and swift.

_Free. Step in and be free. They'll all know how brave. Give praise and thanks and over and over and over! Glory and exultation and_…the voices crept in, overlapping, insistent, inexorable. They held fast, and Dean took another step into the river. _And love. Adoration, and freedom, like flying._

Like flying.

And that was one come-on too many. Dean staggered back, catching himself, his boots over-topped in the rush of river. Without knowing or remembering how he got there, he now stood on the low riverbed between two Sisters, ankle-deep in flow, so easy to just keep walking and let the current take him faster and faster.

He bent double, catching his breath, which was coming in a thin gasp, realizing how close he was. How easy it would be. With one hand, he reached down into the water, splashed some on his face, tried to clear his head.

_Fuck_.

Since there was no one there with him, he could admit he was shaking, didn't hide it. Stood ankle deep in the Niagara River just above the Horseshoe Falls, water that fell from his fingers now joining to rush over the geological scythe into the cauldron below. Flying.

He turned, walked purposefully out of the water onto dry land.

This time, he kept his wits close. He tried to separate the voices as his shovel dug into the hard-packed ground under the rowan tree, but there were too many. Would Delisle and his crew have used coffins? He doubted it. No time.

He hit something, instinctively pulled up, knowing that the edge of his blade hadn't touched root or rock or anything that was supposed to be there. It wasn't wood, or metal, either. It was flesh. He didn't question that he would recognize the feel of a blade biting into a body; this was what he did, what he was. A midnight digger of bodies.

_Okay, let's see what we've got_, he thought, carefully scooping the topsoil at a horizontal angle, uncovering now rather than digging.

It was a woman, maybe in her early twenties, wearing a sodden dress that Dean couldn't pin to an era. The dress didn't look particularly modern, but who was he to know? She was pleasantly rounded, not a thin creature, dark hair in a tangle around her pale face. She looked as though she was sleeping.

Incorruptible, touched by god. _By a god?_ Dean had no idea, thought about Italian saints and lit votives. Not that he believed, not that. But here on this little island, surrounded by deadly waters, was something he couldn't easily explain.

Now. The decision. Salt and burn? That's what John would advise. Just get rid of the suckers. A body doesn't look like this when it's living the natural life of the dead. It was evil, gospel according to John.

But.

Up here, on the Three Sisters Islands, being in the dirt wasn't enough to appease whatever needed appeasing. What needed praise or adoration or thanks. This was where sacrifices, offerings, had been made for millennia. Into the river.

It wasn't what John would do. And it was why Dean hadn't told his dad where he was going tonight.

_Free_, he heard, very close. And turned. Nothing but dark woods, the moonlight on the water beyond. It was cold. Might be ghost cold, but Dean wasn't afraid of ghosts. His feet were freezing, soaked through. He hadn't stopped shaking, for one reason or another.

He dusted off the woman and hefted her over his shoulder. The decision had already been made; he hadn't brought down the gasoline can or the sack of road salt. He'd known what he was going to do when he'd left the Impala in the upper parking lot and snuck into the closed park.

By the water's edge, where the boardwalk ran between the Sister he was on and the next Sister over, Dean deliberately went off the path, into the river. He slowly eased the body down into the water, now in to his knees. It needed to be deep enough to carry her away.

Shit, if anyone saw this, he was going to jail for a very long time. Dumping bodies into the Niagara River.

_Free_, he heard again, very close, almost in his ear.

The young woman floated on her back, Dean's arms still easing her into the water, bent over her and her milky eyes were open, staring straight at him. She smiled gently and said it again, a declaration or an offer, Dean didn't know: _Free_. He jumped back, scared. Not of a ghost, not of a body, but of the way his heart leapt with the sound of the word. Surprised and cold and so alone.

_I shouldn't have to deal with this by myself_, he thought, but it felt like a recrimination and he shut it down as soon as it surfaced. Dad would be filling the night with salt curses and Sam? Sam was on another side of something, shouldn't be involved – Dean could give him that, it was easy. Sort of easy. Possible, anyway. Free, his to give.

The woman didn't struggle, didn't seem at all worried or angry or scared. She raised a hand and the current took her, her light-colored dress expanding around her like a flower blossoming in time-elapsed photography. Faster and faster till Dean couldn't see her anymore.

_Over over over,_ he heard, more than one voice. A thousand voices and once again, it seemed ridiculously easy, easier to step all the way in than to pick up that fucking shovel.

Dean Winchester hadn't been raised to take the easy route, though. So he sloshed back to the rowan tree, retrieved the shovel from where he'd jammed it into the shallow earth, and kept digging.

--

_Niagara Falls High School, Niagara Falls NY, November 2006_

He'd waited and it hadn't come. All through morning classes, lunch. The vision hadn't been specific, no matter how hard he tried to recall it. No convenient clock or calendar, no newspaper open to the correct date. Only Elise and a gunshot louder than god.

Then, a frantic call from Dean, Sam's phone going off in the middle of the staff room, Sam taking it out in the hallway as soon as he heard the thin edge of panic in his brother's voice, that deep rumble that always sounded like Dad when he heard it from afar. A pang, thinking of Dad, thinking of _where he was_, then moving on because Dean was going a mile a minute.

_Billy's one of them, Sam, don't care about the twenty-two year time line, his mother died in a fire when he was a baby. He's an evil little fucker and he can fucking read minds, like he's got a goddamn bug in my head. And he knows that we're connected and…and…_

"Slow down," Sam said, ignoring the fact that Dean's use of the word 'them' sounded slightly off, because wasn't Sam one of 'them' too? "Slow down," he repeated.

_Get out of there, Sam, because I was thinking about Dad in that cabin and…_oh, god, Sam thought, because Dean hadn't really talked about that, about what had happened in the cabin when their father hadn't been their father and when he'd said what he had. "Dean, where are you?"

_It's okay, I'm back at the motel, but I'm gearing up, I'll be over there in ten minutes…_

And Sam suddenly envisioned Dean storming the school's front doors with a shotgun, ready to blow everything and everyone apart and he actually froze up then, standing in the hallway outside the staff room, thinking that maybe it was Dean, maybe it was Dean who pulled the trigger.

"No!" he shouted into the phone and a group of students passing by looked sharply at him and he turned, bent against a bank of lockers, tried lowering his voice. "No. Listen, I checked. He's not even here today-"

_He's coming. He's on his way and so am I._

"No, you're not. Seriously, Dean. Stay put. If he's on his way, I'll have him next class, double period, right till the end of the day. I'll keep him away from the gym. Just don't-" and how was he going to say this without alienating Dean all the way to next week? "Stay there. We'll meet up after. Just…"

The bell rang and the hallway immediately filled with students. Sam ducked back into the staff room. "I mean it, Dean. You can't come here. This is why I took the job in the first place, remember?" Mr. Isbister was staring at him and Sam smiled tightly, thinking of terms like _sediment_ and _igneous_ and _escarpment_. "Promise me."

A long pause. He'd asked Dean to follow him to Niagara Falls, to the one location where Dean truly didn't want to be, and then asked him to stay there. Stay put and stay bored. Stay guilty and grieving with nothing useful to do while Sam acted normal and was actually weirdly happy. Sam was suddenly aware of all he was asking, knew that Dean wouldn't say anything about it and at the same time would express all of what he was feeling through his fists and his drinking. Learned behaviors. It was what he had always done and somehow it was so easy to let it happen. Was a known dance that both could do in their sleep.

Sam wished it was all different, everything, but right now he had no time. "Please, Dean."

_I'm leaving my phone on. And I'll be at that coffee shop across the street, okay? You go there right after. You promise me. _It was a capitulation, it was loud as a shouted 'uncle'. Dean giving up cut Sam to the quick, especially because Sam was forcing it, forcing Dean to his will. Most of the time he didn't even have to say please.

So Sam promised him. _I'll see you right after school, won't wait around._ Promised to himself: _I will stand on my own two feet, Dean. I can't expect you to look after everything._ He clicked the phone shut, was now late for class.

Billy sat expectantly at his desk, eyes lucid, strangely direct. The noise subsided as soon as Sam entered, calmed like a wind had died down on choppy water. He looked at them, some scared, all expectant. The exams, of course.

Sam stared at Billy. _You getting this? Can you hear me?_ he thought.

Billy stared back, motionless.

They went over the exams line-by-line. No tears, no shouting. Then they watched a video of the program COPS with the sound turned off. He asked them to figure out what was going on without the police commentary. They watched it again with the sound up, broke into groups to discuss.

_Making up stories when we don't know the truth_, Sam thought, looking at the back of Billy's head. _You hear me, Billy?_

"Hey," he heard from the doorway while the groups continued to discuss. Sam looked up, smiling as he did so, recognizing her voice, her accent, soft and broad like a good bed.

Elise leaned against the doorjamb, her eyes scanning the class. She took a few steps in, and Sam took a few steps towards her, lowered his head. "Looks like it's going well," she said with a laugh.

Sam shrugged, felt danger like electricity, the ozone smell before a lightning storm. "Easy to do with COPS. Bad boys and all." Resisted the urge to reach out, to touch her.

She did something with her lips – pressed them together like she'd just put on lipstick – that made Sam's heart stop. "Listen, I have a double spare right now, so I'm going to go home, do some lesson planning for next week. Call me?"

Oh, god, this was perfect. _Yes, go. What are you still doing standing here?_ Sam looked over his shoulder quickly. Everyone was still working. "Sure. But we'll see you tomorrow, right? Turkey?"

She smiled long and slow, nodded, and Sam watched her walk away, couldn't help himself, reckoned he'd earned it. He came back in, turned, and Billy's eyes were on him. Maybe had been on him that whole time.

"Hey, Mr. W!" Emily Dando, hand up, calling him over, and it was like being swept into a swift current, back into the rhythm of the class.

After the final bell sounded, Sam told Billy to remain where he sat. His large idiot pal Marcus – who had probably failed some grade early in his career and now seemed about five years older than anyone else – cuffed Billy on the shoulder, said that he'd meet him at the mall after and Billy mouthed a desultory agreement. Kept his eyes on Sam.

Sam left the door open, sincerely hoped that Dean wouldn't make a second appearance. He didn't have much time, because Dean would come looking and Sam had made him a promise.

"Billy, your exam…well, it didn't exactly look as though you were trying very hard." Sam undid his tie, stuffed it into his backpack as he talked, glancing up every once in awhile to see what Billy was doing.

The kid shrugged. "I know."

"Do you care, Billy?"

"'Bout what?"

Sam resisted the urge to say 'anything'. "School? Grades? What you're going to do after?"

Billy's weight was at the edge of the seat, back slumped against the wall, legs sprawled. Indifferent, maybe. "Hey, Mr. Winchester."

Sam stilled, gave Billy his undivided attention. "Yes?"

Billy looked up, and for one minute Sam saw something flicker in those gray eyes, something like fear. Worry. "Anything weird ever happen to you?"

Sam thought: yellow-eyed demon inhabiting my father's body like a sock puppet, my girlfriend on the ceiling, burning. Dean shedding his skin in a puddle on the sewer floor. Kept his steady gaze on Billy, who seemed even jumpier than before. "Yes." Sam rested one hand on his casted arm. "All the time."

"I can't hear you," Billy murmured so softly that Sam almost didn't catch it. Then, "This school is so stupid. It must have been stupid when you went here, too, right?"

Careful, Sam warned himself. "I didn't like it much. But I survived."

"My sister Erica goes here. She's fucking perfect. Everyone says she's perfect. It's hard, having a perfect sister." Met Sam's eyes. "You have someone like that in your family?"

Sam shook his head. "Nope. My brother and me? We're both total screw-ups."

That pulled Billy's mouth to one side. "I knew all that stuff on the exam."

Sam nodded. "I know."

Billy got to his feet, looked out the door. Elise would be gone by now, and Dean would be furiously waiting at the coffee shop, probably starting fights with the baristas. It wasn't going to happen today, after all.

_I can save you,_ Sam thought, but he knew Billy couldn't hear him.

"Maybe next time," Billy added as he brushed past Sam and it was so loaded Sam flinched. "Happy Thanksgiving."

--

_Niagara Falls NY, April 2001_

When Sam heard the jangle of keys in the door, heard it open and close, he slid from the seat in front of the desk and told Toad to keep playing the game on his laptop. "I just want to see where Dean's been," he said quietly, and Toad plugged in the headphones, attention on the screen.

Good. If a fight was in the offing, it would happen when Toad was safely in the electronic world of becoming a roller coaster tycoon.

The only light in the living room came from the television, and it illuminated John's weary face, the beard now gone for whatever reasons his dad ever had to keep it or get rid of it, relaxed in sleep. Soft snores interspersed by some show about survival and tribes and challenges. Sam's eyes slowly adjusted enough to spot Dean in the kitchen. He heard him first, actually, heard the metallic friction of cap being unscrewed from glass. Sam watched as Dean drank straight from the bottle of tequila, the blue light from the TV catching the length of his neck as he swallowed. Once, twice. Three times.

"Dean?" Sam asked uncertainly.

The bottle glinted blue as it came down, and Sam snapped the light switch beside the stove. The overhead fluorescents blinked on with a buzzing noise from the faulty ballast, bathing the kitchen and Dean in the kind of glow that would make anyone look like a corpse, let alone anyone in Dean's condition. Dean didn't look at Sam, took another long pull of the bottle before capping it and sliding it onto the counter.

He was covered in dirt, soaking wet, and his eyes were strangely vacant, face white under a layer of clay and soil. Where his hands weren't covered in mud, they were red and sore looking. He'd dripped mud and water across the floor; Sam could see the trail from the door. It reminded him of that night when it had been blood, and it softened his next question considerably.

"Where have you been, man?" Dean took one step back, pulled over a kitchen chair from the table and collapsed onto it. Sam noticed he was shivering. "Coffee?" Sam offered and Dean nodded.

Sam clattered around looking for the filters, his head behind an open cupboard door. It wasn't a good sign that Dean wasn't even answering. He should get out of those wet –

"Dean?" he asked suddenly, forgetting about the coffee, forgetting about Toad and roller coasters, about Dad and tribal alliances. "You dug them up, didn't you?"

He knelt by Dean's side and his brother opened his reddened hands like Sam was going to give him something – Dean hadn't brought gloves, the idiot, and there were open blisters weeping on his palms – before dropping them to his knees. "It didn't shut them up."

"Why are you all wet? You didn't…you didn't…" and Sam couldn't even think about it, recalling the vastness of the Falls, the sheer enormity of the power concentrated there.

Dean shrugged. "Found four bodies, just like Delisle said. Put them in the water. Didn't fucking shut them up, Sam." His voice was quiet, and wrapped in it, despair, and Sam didn't want to hear it, had never expected to hear that. This was _Dean_.

"Why didn't you salt and burn?" And it made them jump, the close sound of their dad, standing in the archway, coming up to them on his cat feet, enormous coiled power, dreadful in the truest sense of the word. "You found bodies and you didn't take care of it?" His voice was Nebraska flat, not quite an accusation, not yet.

"That's not gonna do it," Dean whispered. "You shoulda seen them, Dad." And Dean's attention was now on John, was a conversation between two hunters. Sam knew why Dean was doing it, knew that it was to protect him, was to protect them both.

From John. From their father and his abiding obsessions.

"They found bodies under the rubble, in 1969," Sam broke in. He didn't exactly know why he said it: Dean was going to catch most of the shit for this, not Sam. "Found hundreds of bodies, all intact, all held there by something. Not corrupted, like a saint, preserved for a god. Offerings to a higher power. It's not about a demon, Dad. It's not about hell or ghosts."

The lights didn't help. Their wash illuminated every scar on John's face, every blow that he'd taking chasing something, killing something. Sam remembered many of them, had sewn up a number himself. By the cruel light, he could see the adjustment his father made: deal with Dean later, Sam needs some setting straight now.

"Sam's helping with this?" There it was: accusation, plain and hard.

Dean sighed, glanced quickly at Sam, who could read him like a book – _shut up, Sam, let me handle it._

But Dean was fucking _done_ and Sam was sick to death of Dean always coming to his defense. So he didn't shut up. "Yeah, we went and interviewed one of the guys-"

Forcing Dean to stand up, even though he looked as though he'd rather be sitting. Rather be unconscious. "I went and interviewed the guy, he told me what they'd found. They'd buried four of the bodies in '69, left the rest as they were. That's when it started, ordinary people jumping in, thinking they were superheroes. I thought if I put those bodies back-"

John drew close and Sam watched the current that ran between them, the direction of it. Sam knew which way it would go, which way it always went and it made him white hot with sudden anger.

Sam cut between them, not able to bear Dean's protection, not anymore. "A willing sacrifice. That's what those guys were, that's what's needed now. Their bodies were _untouched_, Dad. They jumped knowing the cost, and Dean just returned them to where they were supposed to be."

"It's about _glory_," Dean's words ran over Sam's, maybe trying to make a point that Sam didn't see, couldn't hear, or trying to shut him up. "In the big picture sense. About doing it for a higher power, whatever that is-"

Sam back at it: "I don't know if it's a river god or the Snake, or what, but whatever it is, it needs to be appeased, Dad. You can't fucking kill it. Those clowns," and that was a deliberate jab, was still fighting, not persuading, because he was talking about his father's hunter friend McGreevy, "that just jumped in because they were promised fame? They weren't willing sacrifices – they actually thought that they'd _survive_. That's not a sacrifice, is it?"

John was so close now Sam could feel his breath. Then Sam straightened, full height, no slouch, and he was taller. Had been for a while, just never realized it till this very moment.

"You finished, son?" John whispered.

Sam was afraid now, but didn't show it, didn't move a hair. Turned his head to the side, felt Dean's presence behind him.

"Sam," Dean said, low. A warning.

"You," John raised his eyes to meet Sam's and there was give to the gesture, a small acknowledgement that his son had grown tall, had _grown_. "Are not to go down there."

"He didn't," Dean muttered behind him. "I did."

"I'm not talkin' to you," John said harshly, and Sam flinched at the sound of it. "This is not some 'god'. No such thing. We have ghosts, their voices. Nothing that some salt and burn, maybe an exorcism, will take care of. We can hear them, and we can use that-"

"I can't hear them," Sam interrupted. "Why is that, Dad?" He knew the answer. He'd known for some time. "But I'm not a willing sacrifice, never will be. Stubborn, I think you've called it. Self-centered. Willful."

And John backed up a step, eyes flashing. Between them, suddenly, Dean, dragging Sam to the side, because he'd seen it too, the flash, knew what it portended. Sam didn't care. He had a letter to Stanford and he was getting the fuck out of here and that man? That man was some kind of monster to put his sons through this, to ask of them what he did.

"You are full of piss and vinegar, aren't you?" John grated as though Dean had suddenly disappeared, vanished from the room. "What the fuck are you talking about? Listen to yourself: River gods? Willing sacrifices? You gonna set up some dreamcatchers and crystals, see if the Moon's in your second house?"

A point of contention, like organized religion. There was supernatural shit that you paid attention to because it was dangerous. And then there were unicorns and Santa and astrology, which were bullshit. Nothing in between, not in John's Winchester's world.

Sam snorted through his nose. Contempt. How far could he push this before his dad blew? He didn't know, didn't care. "Those ghosts are asking for a willing sacrifice. They're testing people and people are failing. Dean did the right thing."

"The right thing? Sneaking away to go where I told him not to? Making you part of this hunt when I-"

"It's all about _you_, isn't it?" Sam flung back and Dean being between them wasn't enough then; Sam was never sure afterwards who threw the first punch, him or his dad, but it descended then, the rage. Not white hot, not this time, but _red_.

Sam had a long reach, sure, but John was faster, more confident of his abilities, colder in his precision and Sam was on his ass in under a second. John made another lunge, still cold with fury, but Dean was quick enough this time, got in between, put two hands on John's shoulders and pushed him back, gently. With respect. Held his hands out from his sides, open to whatever their dad wanted to inflict next.

Covered in grave mud, wet with river. Going against orders, perfectly willing to take whatever lumps were coming to him because of it.

And Sam wasn't. He struggled to find his feet, but Dean stepped back, put his heel sharply down on the fabric of Sam's jersey-knit shirt, held him down enough that Sam had to stay put on the kitchen floor. In that space of time, Sam looked up, hearing a wheezing sound, and saw Toad, big Bills coat over his shoulders, standing in the archway, just beyond the spill of kitchen light.

"Sam," Dean said, low, pained. "You and Toad take off. Dad needs to have a few words with me." _Between hunters_. He eased his foot off Sam's shirt and Sam came up, but not as fast as he originally thought he would.

John wouldn't look at him, wouldn't look at anyone, was rubbing his fist where it had connected with Sam's ear. He was barely out of breath.

Dean looked at Sam, raised his eyebrows. _Do this for me_, he implored.

Sam didn't nod, didn't acknowledge either of them. _Fuck them and their crazy code. Fuck them and the things they hunt,_ he thought as he jogged down the stairs and into the night, Toad following, laptop in knapsack, eyes big with wonder. Sam didn't have any more tears in him, really, he didn't. And he didn't mean it, couldn't actually understand these sharp foreign thoughts teasing him apart like wheat from chaff. _Fuck both of them_. Didn't mean it, not really.

Not yet.

--

_Deveaux Park neighborhood, Niagara Falls NY, Thanksgiving, 2006_

It was relief that Sam felt, pure and simple. After the pumping adrenaline of the day, waiting for what didn't happen, he'd felt wrung out. Then wondering what mayhem Dean had created not just at the coffee shop, but at the Shuter household. A long discussion over bitter black coffee, the staff shooting them dirty looks Sam didn't want to parse, Dean talking non-stop.

So exhausted, both of them, that they'd ordered in pizza and been asleep before eleven.

Sam had woken early, just in time to get a head start worrying about Thanksgiving dinner at Elise's, felt like he was bringing a wild animal with him, a liability, a ticking bomb. But, like the other things, all that worry was for nothing.

Because when Dean was on, he was _on_. Dean was operating at the top of his astonishing game, charming, smiling, listening deferentially, laughing at her jokes – hell, laughing at _Sam's_ jokes – eating everything on his plate without question, chewing with his mouth closed, even the Brussels spouts which Sam knew for a fact he hated.

Had fucking _seconds_.

Elise had gone all out, set red candles onto new table linens, made the pumpkin pie from scratch, served up a bottle of Californian Pinot Noir that must have cost more than the turkey itself. Right from the moment Dean had parked the Impala outside her house, Sam directing him where to pull over, Dean had behaved himself. So polite and casually contained that he reminded Sam of their dad when he wanted something.

Unfair, Sam chided himself. Dean wasn't like their dad, had never been like their dad. Sam was nervous, was looking for fault. Wanted desperately for Elise to like Dean, wanted her not to think all the Winchesters were freaks. Wanted Dean to like Elise. Remembered vividly that confrontation in the high school's office with Carcetti and Elise, after the knife incident. Dad, all bristle and sharp edges and Elise not backing down. And him, Sam, wanting so badly for the floor to open up, for this period of his life to be over.

Sam looked across the turkey carcass, the table littered with crumbs of bread, a smear of cranberry sauce, saw without hearing. Dean was nodding at something Elise was saying, the candles reflecting from his eyes, pale cheeks brought to color by the slight flush red wine usually delivered to Winchester men – hell, maybe we're allergic, Sam thought suddenly – and knew that Dean was trying. Hard. To fit in, to be nice, to hold still.

To give Sam a fighting chance.

Maybe sensing Sam's attention, Dean looked over, smiled at him. "Remember that Thanksgiving we walked over the Rainbow Bridge?"

Unlike Dean, to bring up that time. Five years ago to the day. But here they were, same place, a much different Thanksgiving. A different set of reasons to give thanks. _We're alive_, Sam thought. _At such a price, but I'll give thanks for it anyway. Thanks, Dad_. "Yeah. I remember. We went to…that arcade." Don't mention the daredevils, don't mention that photo of the dry Falls when everything had clicked. Don't mention the voices and the cold walk and hell to pay later.

"Dazzleland," Dean nodded. "That was fun."

"Didn't really do Thanksgiving, did we?" Sam clarified, more for Elise than for Dean, who seemed a million miles away, thinking about what Sam didn't know. The flashing lights, the claim of 'family fun' to be had, the shine and gleam, like edible oil product icing on a bland grocery-store birthday cake.

"So, what was it like, growing up, just you boys and your dad?" Sam heard Elise ask, and Sam fought a surge of panic. At the beginning, Jess had asked questions like this of him. She'd stopped asking after awhile, meeting the wall that Sam put up. Elise wasn't asking Sam, though. She was asking Dean.

Who smiled, leaned back in his chair, not looking at Sam. _He's good at this_, Sam marveled, _way better than I ever was_.

"Well, Sam was always grousing about food, kept a hoard in his knapsack, under his bed. I usually found it," Dean started. "You have brothers?" Throwing it back into her court, maybe, because Sam didn't think Dean was trying to engage her, draw her in. Connect her to them.

Elise nodded. "Two younger ones."

Dean nodded like that meant something to him. And he _was_ trying to connect her, Sam saw, was trying so damn hard. _He's doing this for me._

"Well you know, then. Always scrapping. Hey, Sam," and looked at Sam, but Sam couldn't tell what his brother was going to say, was so off balance. Who was this guy that had suddenly manifested himself like a fairy godbrother in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner? And what had he done with Dean? "You remember that time when you wanted a pet? And on the Thanksgiving weekend you brought home that…what was it? A rat? A rat from your kindergarten class?"

"A hamster," Sam corrected, remembering. "And there were two of them."

Dean looked surprised. "Really? 'Cause I only remember one."

"The second one escaped when you were flushing the first one down the toilet."

"It was dead, Sam."

Elise was gathering their dishes, laughing along with Dean, ignoring Sam's indignation. She came back with the pie, set it on the table, sat down with them.

"It wasn't dead when I went to the Saturday morning reading club at the library." He turned to Elise and she was leaning forward on one elbow, chin cupped in her hand, a smile tugging the corner of her lips. "And when I got back the toilet was overflowing, Dad was apeshit and the cage was wide open and empty."

"How was I supposed to know that a hamster would plug the freakin' toilet?"

"That apartment didn't exactly have decent plumbing," Sam conceded, starting to laugh. "But you could have at least waited till I got home before trying to get rid of the body."

Dean's grin was lupine and his eyes were mere glints in the candlelight. He addressed his comments to Elise. "Sam went a little crazy, tackled me, but the bathroom floor was soaking wet, and we both went sliding onto our backs, and we took out Dad like a bowling pin. Dad had out one of those plungers and suddenly, the whole thing-" he gestured with his hands and Sam was laughing so hard his breath was coming in little gasps. "And all this crap came up like a geyser and there was this little rodent, floating on top-"

"What did Dad call us?" Sam managed between wheezes.

Dean wiped his tearing eyes, face flushed with laughter more than wine. "The Winstooges." And that started the both of them on another long run of loud choking laughter.

Elise served up the pie, shaking her head. "Must have been quite the small society, you guys."

"Yeah," Dean said, voice dropping soft, taking the plate from her with a nod of thanks. A little wary, had left himself open. "It was."

They fell into silence for a moment, the weird quiet that came after hilarity, maybe marking how fleeting these moments were. "I met your dad, once," Elise ventured, maybe trying to build a bridge between them, to offer something new. Natural, so natural to want to do that.

"This pie is amazing," Sam intervened. He looked at his brother, but Dean was contained, eyes down on the table, his fork stalled midway between mouth and plate. "The whole dinner was amazing."

"Yeah?" Dean asked, in between shutting down and wanting more, wanting any scrap of their father like they were collector's items.

Elise was getting a piece of pie for herself, was concentrating on the knife, on the cut. "Thanks, it was my pleasure, feeding you guys." She transferred the pie lifter into her right hand. "He came into the school once. I can't say that we got along. He was…" her voice trailed off and she looked thoughtful, a small crease between her brows. She was _between_, as Sam had been since he'd returned to Niagara Falls. Stuck between present and past. Between a lover and a teacher. A student, for chrissakes. For all that, it felt more odd than wrong to Sam. "Your father seemed really devoted to your family. Sam. Protective."

Dean nodded, shoved some pie in his mouth and Sam noticed how Dean wasn't looking at him. "Mmmnn," Dean said noncommittally.

"That was the day your SAT scores came in, right?" Elise checked with Sam. "Those were the best SATs I've ever seen in my life. We were so ecstatic."

For one moment, Sam was back in that office, with Ms. Simon and their dad and knowing nothing short of a faked seizure was going to stop it. Was going to stop this.

Elise turned to Dean, who had stopped chewing, waiting, anticipating, eyes perfectly blank which meant he was steeling himself for something he wouldn't like. "Sam had all his applications sent here, to this house. He worried so much about how your dad would take it. I remember," and she smiled at this, so wistfully and she was really extraordinarily beautiful by candlelight and Sam prayed that she'd just leave it be, but she was sharing, was trying to understand, was trying to solicit Dean's help in understanding something essential about Sam. "I remember when he first came into my office at the beginning of the year and he had no idea that he was good enough for college. I mean, how couldn't he have known that, right?"

Dean blinked hard, was hanging in there, Sam could see. "Right," Dean agreed, bleak, not knowing what he was agreeing to.

Elise shook her head. "He's so smart. And he had no idea."

And there, _there_ was the shift in Dean, the fork came down on the table beside the half-eaten pie and Sam knew everything about the evening was about to change.

"You know-" Sam started, tried to head it off, but it was like stopping a freight train with his bare hands.

"So," Dean's mouth twitched into a frown, then turned on a dime, reemerged as a tight grin. A runner checking himself at second, pulling up and it was no smile that Sam recognized, "so you talked him into applying for colleges, showed him what he had to do?" Seemed innocent, was so capable at sounding innocent, had such practice at it. Was eying his next move, thinking of stealing third, dekeing out the pitcher on the mound.

Elise nodded, grinning like it was a conspiracy. "Well, yeah. He had no idea. Hadn't even thought about it. So I prepped him for the SATs and then all the applications went through me. I wrote recommendations. Hard to get into a place like Stanford without stellar references, a kick-ass entrance essay. Sam's grades were always superior, he just needed some help with the other stuff." She turned to Sam, maybe wondering why the brothers had suddenly gone so quiet. Took his hand on the table, a very slender smile, tentative. "And look how you turned out."

Dean balled up his napkin, threw it on the table and Sam drew his attention from Elise's face to see the cord working in Dean's jaw. "Sam turned out some fine, all right." Hard stare at the crumbs, the remainder of the meal, strewn across the table, all that was left. "You know," and he was still trying to hold on to civility, Sam could see, but needed to get out, had reached the limit of his ability to fake it, "I really…I really…" Got to his feet, pushed in his chair.

"Oh," Elise was confused, of course she was confused, she had no idea.

Sam grabbed Dean's arm as he passed, knowing it was probably better to he let him go, but the change was so abrupt and so massive, that letting Dean loose on the dark world giving thanks for their blessings felt totally irresponsible. To everyone, Dean included.

Dean pulled away, kept walking to the door and Sam wondered if his brother was having some kind of panic attack – funny how a Thanksgiving dinner would give him a panic attack when zombies and ghosts and vampires didn't – but knew it wasn't that. It was realizing, it was-

Sam glanced at Elise, got up and followed Dean to the hall.

"Dean," quietly, at the foot of the stairs, Dean already sorting his coat out of the hall closet, face pink in the wan lamplight. "You can stay, it's okay."

Took a moment to turn, marshalling something, sharpening knives, who knew. When their eyes met, Sam saw anger, not panic. A little laugh, barely an indrawn breath. "Always wondered how you did it, man. How long you'd been planning it. Took a bit of effort, didn't it?"

Under the thin veneer of anger, bedrock of hurt, but Sam couldn't address it. Not all of it was his doing. But some of it? Some of it was. _You have no idea what it was like, after you left._

"Where are you going?" Sam asked, even though he knew Dean had no idea, wasn't so much going somewhere as leaving someplace. "Stay."

But Dean already had his coat on, jaw working on anger or other things, an array of shit stirred up beyond his easy ability to push down. "You stay," he whispered, not meeting Sam's eyes. "It's okay," and he had to look up at that, but the light was shitty and Sam had no idea what was going on in Dean's messed up head. "It's okay. Thank her for dinner, but I gotta go, man."

Sam followed him out the front door in his socks. "Dean!" he shouted after him, but his brother only lifted a hand, the keys catching the streetlight, heading for the car.

--

TBC

a/n: So sorry it's a little more than my usual week between posts. What can I say? It's a busy time of year for me in realifeland. Thanks for hanging in there – sorry also if it takes me a little while to respond to comments.


	8. Daredevil

**Chapter Eight/**Daredevil

**What it is:** Gen, PG-13. WIP. Horror/drama.

**What to look out for: **Okay, gentle readers. Here's your warning – it gets bloody and violent from here on in. Oh, and it's horrifically _long_.

**Who I'm thanking: **This chapter in particular would have been bloodier and far less coherent without the betas, jmm0001 and Lemmypie.

**What it's not: **This is not a money-making enterprise, I own only the words and the rest belongs to the Krip, the CW and other money-making enterprises. Which are making money from this enterprise.

**STF:** Niagara Falls, 2001 – Sam is secretly preparing his getaway to Stanford with the help of teacher Elise Simon, for whom teenaged Sam feels a powerful unrequited love. He's made friends with the hapless yet heroic Toad, while Dean and their father investigate the ghosts haunting the Falls: John thinks they are the result of demonic activity; Dean believes that they are part of an old power, a god residing in the Falls themselves. In 2006, Sam embarks on an affair with Elise while Dean struggles to make sense of their father's deal with the yellow-eyed demon. At Thanksgiving dinner, Dean reacts badly when he finds out that Elise helped Sam plan his Stanford escape. Meanwhile, Billy Shuter, a child with both special abilities and a yellow-eyed friend, forms an unhealthy fascination for his new Law & Society teacher, Mr. Winchester.

**--**

_Niagara Falls NY, Saturday, November 25, 2006_

He was just sitting there, not doing anything, not moving. Fifteen minutes Sam had watched him through the motel room's window before he couldn't stand watching any more, needed to know where he'd been. He drew on his coat and his boots, left the door partly open and approached the Impala with trepidation. Might be sleeping behind those sunglasses. Sam knocked on the driver's side window, watched Dean jump, and came around to the passenger seat, slid in.

"Did you sleep out here?" he demanded.

Dean stretched and purposefully pulled his neck to the side so it cracked. Sam winced. "Come on. I put on coffee. There's coffee inside," and jerked his thumb toward the motel room door, the number 1-0-something visible in the wan morning sunlight, last number mysteriously missing, like a haunted room only occupied by those too stupid to wonder. "You can watch cartoons."

Dean leaned his head against the window, rubbed his forehead like it hurt. "Get out of the car, Sam."

"No." This was ridiculous; Sam had had enough. "You gotta talk to me."

Dean smiled, bitter. Since Thanksgiving dinner, Dean hadn't been back to the motel for more than a few minutes at a time, only to shower and change his clothes. He'd barely said three words to Sam, and two of those were 'shut up'. Sam had no idea where Dean had slept Thursday night, or last night. Where he'd been in the intervening hours. "Nope. I don't."

Sam took that to mean: You're the one with the fucking secrets, Sammy.

"Listen, your feelings got hurt, I get that-"

"You don't get shit, Sam. Get out of my fucking car." His voice was rough, maybe with smoke or drink or sheer exhaustion, but Dean didn't seem like he'd been out for a bender, he seemed distant and cold and contained, all clenched fist and concentrated fury.

"We've already done the you-not-talking thing, Dean. I'm tired of it."

"So get out of the car already."

"Where are you going?" Not what he really wanted to ask which was – Why do you keep coming back? Because Sam knew the answer to that one. _To check on your sorry ass, Sammy. I'm not the one who leaves. _

But Dean didn't answer him, just started the engine and Sam got out, knew that it would be a while before Dean calmed down, for all he seemed calm now. Dean was testing how long the leash was, maybe, kept coming back because he had to, didn't like it, but there it was. _What if he just keeps going?_ Sam thought, but it was inconceivable, literally. Dean wasn't the one that did the leaving, was never the one who left. Which made Sam feel like a bigger shit than he already did.

"Just don't kill anyone, okay?" _Including yourself_. Heartfelt, but it came out abruptly, an accusation.

"You got any other orders for me?" He wouldn't look at Sam, and Sam couldn't see what was going on behind the sunglasses anyway. Orders. Their father, flinging that in Sam's face, too.

"Fine. One more: Keep your fucking phone on in case anything happens." And then he did get out of the car, because his fuse was so much shorter than his brother's, had always been hair trigger and he was going to lose his shit with Dean if he sat there one minute longer and he didn't think either of them could handle that.

But he did watch as Dean pulled out of the parking lot, watched until he disappeared into the early Saturday traffic, knew that the long weekend had just gotten longer.

--

_Niagara Falls NY, Sunday, November 26, 2006_

Thank god the Cauldron Café had high-backed benches. It even had ferns and other silk plants positioned between the tables to give the illusion of privacy. Just an illusion, of course. Not much was private from him.

Ms. Simon hadn't been in any of her usual spots this weekend; Billy had worried that she'd gone away, maybe to visit some of her hick relatives in the bayou, or – worse still – off to the Canadian side for a romantic weekend with her new boyfriend.

Mr. Winchester.

Billy had no doubts about that now, not after picking up Ms. Simon's consistently carnal thoughts for the past half hour, while he nursed along a large Coke and fended off all comers at his table for four. The Cauldron was busy for early on a Sunday afternoon, and he'd been lucky to score this spot; he wasn't about to give it up for overfed soccer moms with entitlement issues.

_Little bastard, taking up all that space. Who the hell does he think he is?_

He'd just smiled, twirled his straw in his Coke. _I'm the fucking chosen one, you fucking sow. And I got here first._ They were close to animals, scavenging feral cats let loose in a slaughterhouse. He wished he couldn't hear them, but he could.

The man with the yellow eyes, the one that whispered to him as he slept, as he dozed in class, sometimes if he just let his attention wander for a minute, _that_ man, had told Billy how to block them out. But it was hard, took practice, and Billy had better things to do than apply himself to anything that required effort, especially when the payoff wasn't exactly anything you couldn't get by walking away to a quiet place. Or blowing their brains out with one of his father's numerous hunting rifles. That would take care of them, for sure.

Not a subtle solution, not perfect, so he leaned back in the bench, momentarily let go of the notion of guns and blood. Just over the bench, on the other side, maybe twelve inches, Ms. Simon picked at her lunch, a stack of papers on the table before her. A creature of habit, like those doomed salmon that swam back to their spawning grounds. Like she haunted the place. Billy wondered if she'd brought her dead daughter to this cafe. She was like a ghost, couldn't let go.

She'd had to corral her unwholesome thoughts about the length of Mr. Winchester's thigh, about the smooth hard curve of his hip bone, had to muster professionalism, bend it to work, to that stack of papers. Billy was aware of who was flunking. Moronic Marcus wasn't going to make it out of the twelfth grade. Billy smiled. A lot of them weren't going to make it out.

Half an hour before she was interrupted, but it was worth it. Her reaction to when Mr. Winchester walked through the door was so intense it was literally breathtaking.

_Oh my god_, she thought, stabbed through with something that Billy identified abstractly as 'love', but it was also colored by a sensation so intense it tightened his groin like a vise. He couldn't shut it out, hell, didn't _want_ to shut it out. Because _he_ was here now, the object of Billy's continuing fascination.

"Hey," Billy heard through the false ficus and philodendron.

_Save me_, she thought, and another surge. Billy closed his eyes. A kiss, the liquid sound of mouth sliding against mouth, need being met.

"Missed you last night," she said. _Say something, Sam, please. Where have you been?_

Noise of a chair scraping back, papers being moved. "Yeah, I'm sorry."

_He looks so tired, he needs a decent sleep instead of all this worry._ "Are you okay? Is Dean okay?" And Billy was listening hard, had opened himself enough. A dinner table, a trail of Thanksgiving debris strewn across the table like battlefield gore and a stunned face – that fucking _reporter_ – shock turning so fast to desolate anger, getting up from the chair like he was going to kill something.

Silence, but not really, not to Billy. Mr. Winchester might exist in black hole, that was to be expected, that's what the yellow-eyed man had said: _You won't hear him, because he's special like you_. And that so-called reporter – he was someone connected to Mr. Winchester, close as a witch's familiar, a bodyguard, a father confessor. Probably his brother, though Billy had no idea why mere kinship conferred such feelings.

Billy didn't want _kinship_ with Mr. Winchester. Nothing so mundane. What he yearned for was more sacred, though he could barely use that word without sounding like a complete fuckwad. But he wanted to believe that the world wasn't as stupid and fucked as he knew it was. That there was purpose and that he _fit_. And Mr. Winchester might offer that, same as the yellow-eyed man, part of a plan.

"Is he okay? I don't know. No," and Mr. Winchester's voice was so soft Billy turned in his seat, chanced a look through the never-dying but dusty foliage, trying to hear through conventional means. Her hand was on his shoulder, close enough to touch. "He's been in and out all weekend. Not really talking to me right now. You remember how worried I was about telling them about Stanford. What happened at dinner just…brought up a bad time. But he'll be okay. Dean's a pretty tough nut to crack."

_He's split wide open, Sam, don't you see it? He's grieving and doesn't know it,_ but superimposed on that was her little blonde-haired girl and damn if that didn't _hurt_. "He's a lot like your Dad, isn't he?"

Mr. Winchester laughed, but it caught in a funny place and didn't sound amused at all, sounded like the start of the kind of sob you took when you were badly winded. "Actually, no, Elise. He's not much like our Dad."

And Billy had a sudden vision of a dark-eyed man who moved with the easy grace of a wild animal. Smelled of backwoods: gasoline and gun oil, woodsmoke. Ms. Simon had met him, didn't like Mr. Winchester's father. Was _scared_ of him.

Same man who'd worn yellow eyes, the reporter had inadvertently shown Billy. Mr. Winchester's father. See? _Connected_.

"I'm more like him, when it comes right down to it. Self-centered. Focused." A grin, and a kiss, and that same thrill of electricity tingling as though a circuit had been completed. Billy couldn't decide if the sensation was pleasant or not. "Dean's always been…"

Mr. Winchester shrugged; even through the plants Billy could see it. But the movement put Mr. Winchester in a more worrisome sightline, and Billy turned around again. Another swarm of women, the point-mom burdened with a tray of hot coffees, the sort of drinks requiring strategic decisions: low-foam and non-fat, shot of vanilla or double-shot decaf. She cleared her throat and looked at Billy and his empty glass and the way he took up a whole bench, a whole table.

_Fuck you_, Billy thought, still trying to hear.

"So where is he now?"

"Came in for good early this morning, more or less in one piece. Sleeping it off. Cranky as hell."

A pause, glaring, Billy's head turned, trying to ignore the hovering coffeenazis, concentrating on Mr. Winchester's library enunciation instead. "It's hard for him to stay anywhere for long, let alone here." The women were moving away, cramming themselves around a tiny bistro table, interrupting other patrons to ask if they could drag a chair from here, from there. Billy smirked. "You want to go someplace?"

Jesus Christ, but it was overpowering, the desire coming off Ms. Simon like heavy musk, like – like..._napalm in the morning_. And then, keen soprano note, one of those Germanic epics that Daphne liked so much, a thought that cut like justice: _He's my student, he was my student. How can this be right?…_and she didn't think, just _felt_ and Billy was faint with it, could barely stay upright.

Billy knew what it was to need like this, to want someone to see you for what you were. Didn't make him like Ms. Simon any better, but something was there now that hadn't been before: an understanding.

"Why don't you come over to my place, meet you there at four? I have all this," might have gestured to the stack of papers. _Get a hold of yourself, he's barely an adult._ "I'll make you dinner. Both of you, if Dean'll come."

She didn't want the brother, the reporter, Dean, to come. He scared her, for starters. And she wanted Sam to herself. Billy understood that, actually. But she was also curious, as though Dean was one more lens through which she'd see Sam more clearly.

The sound of Mr. Winchester getting to his feet: slide of chair, movement of body using muscle to defy gravity, sharp as sunlight after rain. "Believe me, the condition Dean's in, he's not really fit for company. And I think food's the last thing on his mind." Billy bent his head over his glass, sucked air. Even the ice had melted. Hanging on to the shreds of what he could pick up. "But dinner sounds good. I'll let you get on with the grading."

"You're just smug because you've already done yours."

Mr. Winchester laughed, a deep sound humming from his throat, so unlike Willem Shuter's fake boom of false friendship. This laugh was more layered, held all kinds of things like bitter and hard and sad and glad to be alive. Shit. He'll help me. He can help me. If I can get the others out of the way. We're better than this.

"You always said I was the smart one," and he must have bent down for a kiss, because Billy caught what he did from Ms. Simon and she breathed goodbye and he was gone.

For a long moment, Billy let the noise of the café eddy and flow around him, brush against him like a river's slow current while he stood stone still. Didn't try to pick up, didn't try to sort the voices, just let it come.

If I can get the others out of the way, he thought again. He waited long enough that another gang of privileged citizens – these ones maybe churchgoers or peace activists, hard to tell, righteous as hell whoever they were – had given him dirty glares, thought choice things about him.

Meanwhile Ms. Simon worried about how young Sam was, about whether she was taking advantage of anything, whether this was a good idea, whether Sam's brother was a raving psychopath, yammered on and on when she should have been concentrating on grading the fucking papers in front of her, when what she really wanted? What she really wanted like any jock in the shower, any girl watching the slow progress of musicians down the school corridor, like Daphne did for Willem for fuck's sake, all she wanted was to jump Sam Winchester's bones right now.

She was a fucking hypocrite.

So he waited for her to leave and then he occupied the café's prime real estate long enough that the manager finally came over and asked him if he was planning on another drink. Billy told him that he was an asshole and that his staff hated the way he always put them on split shifts so he could go fuck his mistress during the lunch rush. Shoulda got him thrown out. But it happened to be the truth and the manager slinked away like a stone-pelted jackal. Billy had enough of this place anyway.

He knew what he had to do.

--

_Niagara Falls NY, June 6, 2001_

Luckily no one was home, because it was late and Dad didn't like anyone phoning after eleven – hell, didn't really like people phoning at all – especially anyone for Sam, especially when they were mashing their words together, consonants slipping into one another. And babbling on about Tiger Woods like he was a god.

What it all added up to was that Toad was in trouble, really, and Sam weighed his options while at the same time kept an amiable tone while Toad combined words into long aspirated diphthongs, and held forth about how golf courses were really just pleasure parks for the privileged. Sam couldn't really fault him for that, but Toad was trespassing, drunk and obvious about both these things. Seemed as though Sam was going to have to do something about it, too, since Toad had no one else.

_Eighteenth hole, of course, man. One for each year. You're gonna make something of yourself, Sam. Just like…that Woods is a fucking miracle, isn't he? Like Bobby Fischer with a five iron or something. Civilized game, golf. I'm watching the sprinklers, Sam. I'm soaking wet. It's warm out. I still have half a bottle of vodka left. C'mon._

A bad day for Toad, and Sam knew it.

If Dad came home and Sam was gone, Sam would be dead meat. For a noble cause, yeah, but still. _As if Dean hasn't done it a million times_. That was Dean though, the perfect fucking son, the perfect hunter, Mr. Yessir. Sam looked around the room, grabbed his jacket from the desk chair. Warm enough night for early June, but Toad was probably going to be cold, was drenched from the golf course sprinklers from the sounds of things.

With bruises all up and down his side from that fucking Damon and his goons, the only reason being that he'd been alone and been Toad. Marked.

Sam had spent the day solo, over the bridge, wandering through Dazzleland saying goodbye, goodbye to that time with Dean, to just hanging out and being goofy. Last time. He didn't know how last time was going to wind up, not able to think about making the leap from last time here to first time there, just knowing it was coming up, inexorable, irresistible. He'd just been wasting the day, really, bored with school, everything sewn up, no reason to be there. A reason _not_ to be there, actually. Advance notice: Ms. Simon was coming in with the baby and Sam couldn't do it, just couldn't. He pushed that down, hard.

Then heard the door, heard the dual _rumblerumble_ that passed for conversation between Dean and their father, couldn't tell one from the other through plaster and lathe. The window had a fire escape, getting out wasn't the problem, really. Maybe one or the other would come in, maybe…

"Dean, it's an idiot plan-" Sam heard, recognized the tone, put the hair on the back of his neck up.

"It makes the most sense, Dad," and this was Dean breaking out his reasonable voice, the one that he produced whenever Sam got mad. Madder Sam got, calmer Dean became and dammit if he wasn't going to try it out on Dad. Sneaky fucking asshole.

John didn't let him. "It's too dangerous. I have more experience with making myself this kind of bait. It's better if I go down-" They were outside the door, the only reason Sam could hear them. He put the jacket back on the chair for the moment, sat on the bed, stretched out, grabbed a book just in case either walked in.

"McGreevy went over. He knew about bait. Hell, he knew way more about this shit than either of us." Still reasonable and Sam once again marveled at how Dean never raised his voice to their dad, never yelled at him. At Sam, yeah. Plenty of times, more or less constantly. But their dad? Routinely obedient. Mostly, except when he wasn't.

"Dean-" almost imploring, a strange sound, foreign. "I can't allow you to put yourself in so much danger. Not after what happened down there that night when you broke your arm. You almost-"

"I didn't. And I haven't. I know what they want, Dad, and I'm not going to give it to them. But if you want this demon to show itself, then-" Sam could tell that Dean didn't believe in the demon, could tell from the weary, cynical tone. But it was all John Winchester saw, the specter of 'demon' creating an enormous blind spot: recognizing that neither of his sons bought into this particular demonic scenario wasn't in his biological makeup.

"Tomorrow night'll be perfect: good high moon, clear skies, we'll have lots of light, even beyond the tourism board floodlights. You know the exorcism rites; we've gone over it. I'll get down by the edge on Luna, and you follow through."

Silence, because that was a direct order, and when put like that, Dean never said no. Not in so many words, anyway. Dean must have nodded, or otherwise acquiesced, because Sam heard the sound of Dad rattling in the fridge and then the door to the bedroom opened and Dean eased himself in, looking over his shoulder, a thoughtful expression creasing his brow with worry. He turned his head to glance at Sam before closing the door.

Surprised, and not. Looked at the book. "You still up, Encyclopedia Brown?"

Sam sighed. "You guys are loud. _And_ right outside my door."

Dean took off his workshirt, sat on the edge of his bed. "And you're an uptight little prom queen."

Sam didn't rise to that, just flipped a page of the book. The biography of Golding, still. "What were you guys arguing about?"

Dean lay back on the second bed, the one with the better mattress that he'd claimed their first night here, threw a forearm across his eyes. "He wants to exorcise the Falls demon-"

"It's not a fucking demon, Dean!" Sam hissed, irritated.

Dean shrugged as though it made not the slightest difference. Maybe to Dean, it didn't. "Whatever. Reckons that one of us-"

"Him," Sam clarified, glaring at Dean, who tilted his head on the pillow so he could see Sam better.

"Get your boxers out of their knot, princess." Adjusted his pillow, yawned. They'd been down to the Falls; Dean had that look to him. Strained. Wrung out. "He wants to get to the edge of the Falls, make like he's going to jump, see what it brings out of the woodwork."

Sam snorted. "It won't bring anything out of the woodwork." Thought about his father in darkness, of the Falls and falling. A swooping fear descended, merciless because it was so unexpected. "You shouldn't do it. Either of you. It's insane. It's a risk for nothing."

Dean didn't argue with him, just stayed calm, which was fast becoming the best way to drive Sam completely ballistic. "Yeah, but if Dad realizes it's not a demon, maybe he'll be more willing to listen to your theory." He came up on one elbow, grinning. "Right?"

Sam gave him a black glance, hating him, and Dean chuckled, fell back onto the bed. A silence as Dean considered the ceiling. "Where are you going?" he asked finally. Meant lightly, landed heavily.

"I'm not going anywhere," Sam lied, ashes on his tongue, bitter. "What do you mean?"

"You've got your shoes on. The curtain's back from the window," he gestured with one hand. "Your jacket's on top. Was under my shirt when we went out. And you finished that book about three weeks ago. You meeting some girl?" And grinned again. One long moment and Sam swallowed hard, gulped down what swam up his throat. Guilt. Going out, leaving. That conspiratorial grin; they were partners in this familial prison, weren't they? Even if Dean didn't call it that.

"Nah. Toad's drunk on the golf course."

"Wow, party at the club house."

Irritated mostly with himself, Sam sighed, tossed aside the biography. "Some assholes beat him up today. He's not in good shape. I should make sure he gets home, doesn't get arrested for trespassing. Cover for me?"

Sam had done it for Dean, lots of times. Never for this reason. Noble, Sam reminded himself.

Dean's eyebrows came up. "Shit, no. I'm not covering for you. If Dad comes in here, I'm not lying about where you are." Big smile, like he was funny or something.

Sam's face screwed up. "Dean! How many…"

Dean held up a hand. "Relax, dude. You know that's a good reason, better than any blonde down by the reservoir. Way better than any lame midnight express I ever crawled out a window for. I couldn't make up a more believable excuse." He sat up, watched Sam as he pulled on his jacket. "Be careful." He rummaged in his pocket, retrieved his phone, a new acquisition he hadn't let Sam look at properly, let alone touch. He tossed it to Sam, who caught it one-handed. "Here. Just in case."

Sam nodded. He wanted to say more, instead of just sneaking out in the middle of the night, leaving the warmth. The safety. Sometimes it was claustrophobic. And sometimes it was just what it was, joking around with Dean, who knew him better than anybody.

And maybe not at all.

The golf course was a fifteen-minute jog away, and the evening was warm, unseasonably so. Sam had worked up a fine sweat by the time he swung a leg over the wooden-railed fence. Beyond it, the night reduced everything to gray and black, the sweeping hiss and stutter of the sprinklers like rattlesnakes.

Took awhile to find the eighteenth hole. In fact, he phoned for the location. Called Toad on his cell, got a garbled set of directions that led him straight across a fairway that reminded him of running across a war torn no-man's-land, dodging water jets like sniperfire.

Sam was only marginally dry by the time he found Toad lying on his back on the final hole's green, staring up at the sky, starlight gleaming from his glasses. One lens was cracked, reflected light oddly. That was new. Sam shook water droplets from his fingers. Somehow, he'd managed to keep his jacket dry, so he stripped it off, tossed it to Toad, who took it and sat up. In return, Toad passed Sam a half-empty bottle of clear liquid that swirled in the low light. Sam untwisted the cap, sat beside Toad and took a swig. The vodka burned his throat and he grimaced.

"When'd you get a phone?" Toad asked.

"You okay?" When Toad didn't answer, Sam took that as 'no' and decided to keep the bottle. He took another drink. He was sitting on a golf course at midnight, sprinkler damp, getting drunk with the dweebiest kid at school. Was getting the fuck out of here, so what did any of it matter? "Dean. Dean gave it to me."

Toad laid his arms across his bent knees, stared into the blackness. "He's really cool, your brother. Wish I had a brother."

Great. Just great. Dean had this effect on some people, usually small boys and cheerleaders. "Yeah. He thinks he's cool, anyway."

"No," Toad hiccupped gently, like a little tree frog. "He knows about glory and about sacrifice and being a hero and what the difference is."

"You're drunk." Shit, Toad had heard more that night than Sam had credited. Shitshitshit. Time to call in sanitation and clean this mess up. God alone knew he was used to it. "And Dean talks a load of crap sometimes."

"Your dad's a little scary," Toad continued, not deflected in the least by Sam's disparaging tone.

Heart beating fast as it had dodging the sprinklers, Sam took another long pull from the bottle, set it down on the velveteen grass. "My dad's a lot scary. You haven't exactly been seeing him at his best." Which would be what, exactly? Laughing, joking around? When had that last happened?

"He's stubborn. And wrong." Toad nodded his head, but he wasn't looking at Sam.

A sudden pang: who was Toad to be judging John Winchester? Then Sam remembered Dean, screaming about ghosts and John clubbing him unconscious, John smacking Sam to the floor for disagreeing with him. Okay, so Toad maybe had a point. But it was still Sam's dad and it was part of Sam's job to provide camouflage. He wasn't doing a bang-up job so far.

Time to change the subject. "Damon and those guys. You can't let them get to you, Toad." Sam stared at his friend, who was perfectly still, face set, Buddha-calm. "They're not worth it. And it'll all be over in month. Less than a month."

"Yeah. Wish I was going to Stanford with you." He shrugged. "Still, Buff U won't be bad." He paused, reached out for the bottle.

Reluctantly, Sam handed it to him. He should get Toad home; the kid was slurring and shiny-eyed. Toad took another hit. "You know, if you change one letter, Damon becomes Demon. Think we can get your dad after that asshole?"

Toad was tenacious for a fairly passive kid. Sam swallowed, thought about lying, making up something long and complicated. But it had been a long day and Sam had had it up to here with covering for his dad and his perverse demi-monde. And it was actually kinda funny what Toad had observed so wryly, so Sam snorted with laughter and for once didn't bother to lie. "Yeah, you heard that too?"

Toad nodded. "I don't know about demons or whatever. But what's down there? At the Falls? It's just what your brother said. What you said." And Toad did look at Sam then, looked straight at him. Sam felt a warmth flare inside him, being trusted with a look so open, so different from the shutters and screens his family offered. "I think I'm gonna barf."

Sam grinned, sharp and happy with relief. No way would Toad put all of this together in the morning. Safe topic for once and goddamn if it didn't feel good to talk about this to somebody who wasn't packing heat. "Do it in the hole. Give the rich guys something to think about when they reach in for their balls."

Toad noisily obliged. Sam laid on his back, staring at the clear skies, the sound of retching getting to him, and he turned his head, picking out the plume of sprinklers dancing back and forth, the _stich-stich-stich-whappawhappawhappa_. Over and over. He glanced in the other direction, saw Toad unsteadily return the flagpole into the cup of puke.

Toad wiped his mouth, joined Sam. "So, not a demon. You ever seen a demon?" Breathless disbelief, but also moderate fear. Healthy.

Sam shook his head. "My dad has. He's pretty obsessed. That's what killed our mom."

Toad burped. "Hell, I'd be obsessed too then. But demons are evil, right. The stuff down at the Falls?" Checked with Sam, who thought their conversation could not possibly get weirder. "Not evil."

"No, not evil."

Toad stared at Sam, his voice strangely sure, like they were talking about Golding or thermal dynamics or Greek history. "But it needs what it needs. Maybe that old Snake myth, you think? Or a thunder god, wanting tribute."

Sam nodded, pulled both hands behind his head. "Yeah. Pretty clear it wants a sacrifice, not another daredevil. Daredevils…" he paused to find the right words, "they're just thumbing their noses at the god, telling it that the river is theirs to conquer. It's not about conquering, it's about giving the god its due."

Easy, Modern Mythology 101. Toad considered Sam's theory. "They're fucking loud, the…what's down there…the voices. _Ghosts_."

Sam wondered if Toad had been practicing this conversation, if it was the whole reason he'd called Sam tonight. Maybe Toad wanted the reassurance: in some ways ghosts were much better than mere voices. Hearing voices meant you were crazy. Hearing ghosts? Welcome to Sam Winchester's world.

"So Dean says."

"Your brother is so cool," Toad repeated emphatically. "But he can hear them and those ghosts are _strong_. What you were talking about last night, Dean being bait? You should be worried about him."

Sam sighed, irritated. He didn't want to be worried about Dean. He wanted…he wanted Californian sun and beach and the whole summer of part-time work, honest money to spend on cheap beer and grass. A girl. Maybe a girl. Dean at his back. Not quite as scary. Might have showed on his face, a little.

"I haven't told him about Stanford."

Toad's face screwed up and he turned to look at Sam. "Why not?"

Sam didn't have an easy answer and that showed too.

"He's going to say no."

And those words were out before Sam had even thought them. Out and true and oh my god, he was going to have to do this all by himself, wasn't he? He got to his feet. Time to go. Started walking, because Toad would see, Toad would know. Sam wasn't as together as he seemed, wasn't as smart or collected, any of it.

He waited for Toad, went slowly as he heard his friend stumble behind him, came to a stop and Toad bumped gently into him, ricocheted into a ball-washing post. Sam stood quietly, waited for Toad to reorganize himself.

Toad followed along, but he'd said all he was going to, apparently, and their walk home was punctuated only by hiccups and one more brief spell of vomiting. By the time Sam crawled back into his bedroom window it was nearing two in the morning, and he had school the next day, but he didn't much care about that.

The bedside light was on, but Sam thought Dean was asleep: his face was buried in the pillow, one bare arm dangling off the side of his bed, the sheet twisted round like a candy wrapper. But when Sam stepped in, Dean turned his head, one eye opening blearily.

"Everything okay?" Sounded half-drunk himself.

Sam nodded. Toad was okay-ish. "How about here?"

Dean tried to rub his face, missed, dopey with sleep. "You see Dad at the window with a shotgun across his lap? Everything's fine. Toad get home okay?"

"Yeah. He puked all over himself. Messy."

Dean laughed, but it was muffled by the pillow. He was halfway back to sleep already. "I like that kid. Doesn't faze easily."

"Yeah, he likes you too, Dean."

Sam slowly undressed, listening to Dean's even breathing in the quiet of the sleeping apartment. After a few minutes, Sam crawled into bed, stared at the back of Dean's head. He thought about what it would have been like, just the two of them in an imagined California, and the whole thing shimmered like heat on the road, shifted, intangible, sunlight through fingers.

Sam whispered, quiet as a ghost, not _over over over_, not _glory_. Something more real than any of that. "I'm going, Dean. I want you to come. Please come."

But Dean just kept sleeping.

--

_Bit o' Paris Motel, Niagara Falls NY, Monday, November 27, 2006_

Sam had a way of making you pay for things, Dean knew. All weekend, Sam had probably been keeping a tally in that big brainiac head: _three days of not talking to me, three days of deflections and misdirections. _So far, Sam was collecting on his worry with _wegottatalk_ glances and a false cheerfulness that made Dean want to throw stuff at him. Didn't help that Dean was brutally hung over this morning, unable to fend off Sam's chipper chatter. Dean was desperately trying to make a single cohesive sentence.

Here it came.

Was: "You gonna eat that?"

Sam glanced down at the half-eaten bagel on his plate. He sighed, waved his hand a little. "Go ahead. Think you can keep it down?"

Dean grimaced, rubbed his newly-shaved chin. It felt raw, everything about him felt raw or dead. "How long are we gonna to do this school thing?" he blurted out. The inside of his mouth was thick, covered in algae.

"You mean, how long are we staying in Niagara Falls?" Sam asked, staring at Dean so hard it hurt. Dean looked away, picked up the bagel, hoped his stomach could handle it. Sure. Sure it could. He'd make it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten anything.

"Yeah. How long? What are we here for? Dodged the bullet, didn't we? So to speak."

Sam got up, pulled on a button up shirt, selected a tie from the bundle he kept on a hanger like award ribbons. Trophies. Medals of honor. "Just a few more days, until we're sure."

"We can stick around. You can stick around. Elise…" Dean swallowed and couldn't look at Sam. Forced the words out. "She seems nice enough. If you…" Oh man, he needed more coffee.

Sam was looking at him like he'd grown an extra head. "I gotta talk to Billy, figure him out."

Dean threw down the bagel. "Oh, that's a great plan, Sammy. That kid's fucking dangerous. He reads minds, Sam. You wanna talk to him? Fine: We do it together. Let's go over to his house now and just get it over with."

Sam had fully transformed himself into teacher mode: tie, jacket, decent shoes. The hair was still typically Sam, though. Still made Dean want to haul his ass to an old fashioned barber, the kind who had a jar full of disinfectant that he dipped his combs into.

"Let me figure him out, Dean. No hurry," but glanced at Dean as he said it, because there was always reason to hurry. To get to the next thing. People died if they weren't there.

Dean didn't care about that as much as he used to. And that made getting up every morning that much harder.

Dean looked away, sipped the coffee. It was terrible, but it was hot. Good enough. "Leave your phone on."

"Yeah, likewise."

Time to make amends, but it was hard, it was like bending a stiff limb. Had to be done, because Dean wasn't made for holding grudges, not when it came to Sam. He'd tried silence. Tried drink and rage and nothing was helping. "Need a ride?" he offered. First time he'd done that. He hated the school, hated watching Sam disappear inside, both then and now.

Fuck. Now Sam was looking at him strangely again. "Sure." Sam nodded, "Let me get my stuff."

The only way he could handle it was if he didn't look. That's how he dealt with it. Pulled up to the school, and heard Sam slide out, about to say something, catching himself and Dean couldn't look. The door hesitated, then slammed, tacit agreement: We're good, aren't we?

Dean pulled away, checked his watch. He had time. And wove his way north in the city, to Devils Hole, because he still had one or two things to say to Billy Shuter. This time he wasn't wearing a tie, wasn't going in as a reporter, didn't give a shit. This time he was going to get answers. Billy wouldn't have left for school yet, and Dean didn't give a rat's ass if Billy knew what was on his mind. Might scare him into sharing, because that yellow-eyed sonofabitch was around here someplace and although Dean didn't exactly relish the idea of coming face-to-face with it again, he'd rather it was him than Sam.

He knocked on the door, expecting to hear the shrieks of little girls – those little blondes that Daphne had produced, perfect for placing on pristine beaches and capturing on film. He hadn't seen any photographs of Billy lounging on the Caymans. He glanced at his watch again. Twenty after eight. Maybe they'd gone away for the holidays. Didn't think so, not when there were houses to sell. He rang the bell again and looked through the stems of the frosted irises on the narrow side windows. Just the marble hall, one edge of the huge framed photograph, part of the staircase curving up.

He shaded his face with the flat blade of his hand. It was cold, viciously sunny, an attack. Squinted. A single shoe lay at the bottom of the stairs, child-sized. Out of place in the middle of that pristine, cavernous showpiece. And right then, Dean's stomach gave a slow flip, because this wasn't going to go down the way he'd imagined it would. He reached behind his back, lifted his coat, drew out the handgun he'd put in there as a matter of course. Dealing with a demon-child? Bring your fucking weapon.

Neighbors would be quick to call the police, so he needed to get in fast, not be seen hanging around. He looked like a criminal, knew it. Worked against him in circumstances like this. A skulker. He took cover behind a vigorous holly bush and jimmied the lock on the side of the house that faced the woods. Damned French doors, easy enough to-

He quietly slid the door to one side just enough to get himself in, closed it again, listening.

_He'll hear me no matter how quiet I am_, Dean thought suddenly. _Shit. Wonder what his range is? Can he hear through walls?_ But maybe his skills were as untested and untried as Sam's. Or as finely tuned as Max's, precise. Dean didn't have much of a choice.

The French doors entered into a playroom, a large plastic dollhouse occupying one table, a television, several carpets shaped like ladybugs. A shitload of puzzles and games and boxes with balloon letters and screaming cartoon faces. Unfortunately, the doorway was hung with a plastic beaded curtain. It would make noise. Dean could hear the distant sound of a TV, some nasty morning show, the unmistakable sound of cheery weather guys and forced laughter. He smelled coffee.

Daphne would probably throw the pot in his face, coming in here with a drawn gun, looking like he'd just spent three days sleeping in his car.

Except.

Dean pulled back the beaded curtain with one finger and slipped through to the hallway. The music was louder. Celine Dion, wailing about something. Coffee and morning shows, yes, that seemed in place, but it was too quiet all the same. Shouldn't there be little kids complaining and a husband wondering if this tie went with that shirt? The average sounds of a family getting ready the morning after a long weekend?

_Something isn't right._

Dean smelled two other things, just hovering below the acrid burn of coffee, mingling: hot gunpowder, almost metallic. And blood, which smelled of iron and peat. Dean pulled up in the hallway, breath coming short. Closed his eyes. Two side steps, boots brushing garden dirt in the hallway. Leaving evidence, goddamn, wished he'd brought gloves because he knew what he was walking into now, but not how far it might extend.

He'd walked into enough houses like this to last him a lifetime. _What's one more?_ Then, next beat, _I can't do this today. I don't want to do this today_. He was too raw and too dead and way too hung over, exposed in a way that felt dangerous. _No choice, Winchester. Take stock. Where will the first body be?_

Around the doorway into the kitchen, the TV louder, blasting the countertop. An island with a built-in range. A breakfast counter, the newspaper open, beyond it a square family room, bookshelves filled with cookbooks. In the middle of the eating area, in the corner, Daphne, sitting on the floor with her back against a bookshelf, some of the books tumbled down, resting in her lap. Soaking up the blood.

The gunshot to the head would have killed her instantly. But her pink blouse was also blood-soaked, a shot to her shoulder maybe. And one hand lay by her side, fingers at a weird angle, distorted, perhaps not all there. A defense wound. She'd held up her hand, begging for her life.

Dean was careful not to touch anything, tried to concentrate on making his breathing even, because it was coming too fast.

There was nothing to be done for Daphne, so Dean silently left the kitchen, crossed the marble foyer to the study, stepped over the child's shoe to get there. Didn't want to go upstairs, shit, really, _really_ didn't want to go upstairs. _Willem. The father. Where will he be?_

The pocket doors to the study were partially open, and Dean turned sideways to slide through them. He still had his gun out, maybe Billy was still around. He doubted it though: either dead of a self-inflicted gunshot, or gone. He knew that. Still, it made him feel better to have it in his hands. A little more in control.

Willem Sr., so big and hale, had an extraordinary amount of blood in him. Well, not technically _in_ him anymore, Dean supposed. Across the blueprints on his desk, dripping down the sides, sprayed across the computer screen, which was still flipping through a screen saver of Shuter Real Estate's current listings.

Dean left the room, still not hearing anything. _C'mon, keep moving, secure the scene. _

He stopped on the first step of the stairs, just stood there. The kids'll be up there and no matter the number of times you saw it, you never got used to seeing dead kids. He took a deep breath then placed one foot on the next step. Then the one after that. Up the stairs, forcing every step.

One child's shoe. Where was the other one?

In the bedroom, of course. Dean had been hoping for two girls cowering in the closet, scared shitless. That was the best-case scenario. This, though. This wasn't best case.

She was maybe ten, probably younger. Dean had trouble pinpointing her age for a couple of different reasons: the angle of her body as it rested across the four-poster bed. The white blonde hair covering her face. The blood.

His eye stopped its cataloging of details with her hand, inexplicably: she was wearing one of those rings that dentists gave to little girls, the kind you could squeeze to fit your finger. A pink sparkly piece of plastic passing for a gemstone.

_That's enough._ Dean turned away, breathing shallowly, trying not to think of anything, failing. _Please let this be a murder-suicide. Please_. Quickly scanned the room for the girl's sister, kept looking, not sure what filled him, not rage, it was too pure for that, a kind of need, a need to _find_ and need to _make it stop_.

Two girls in the photograph in the foyer, one older than the child dead in the bedroom. He was shaking now, too much coffee, too little sleep, driving his body and soul past the point of easy return. No Billy, no second sister.

Billy's room was covered in magazine cut-outs and newspaper articles, each detailing weird deaths. Looked kinda like their own motel room, in a strange way. Still no Billy, no sign of the other sister. Maybe some kind of next steps, though, some explanation of why. Kid like this? Check his computer. Dean tapped the mouse with one finger and the computer hummed to life.

Several windows opened on the desktop, a number of web sites: something on demonology, a site devoted to the Columbine shootings. The _Niagara Falls Gazette_, June 8, 2001. The headline stopped Dean cold and he felt all the blood run from his face: _Local boy in Falls tragedy_.

_Oh my god_, he thought, seeing that. Remembering what had happened and why. Remembering what had followed. _Oh, Sam_, and after the weekend of silence, it was like being stabbed in the heart.

He slid open his phone.

They hadn't dodged the bullet, not by a long shot.

--

_Niagara Falls State Park, Niagara Falls NY, June 7, 2001_

Sam had forgotten how wet it got down here, how loud. Around midnight, moon starting to wane, bright because of that, brighter because of the cheesy floodlights. They'd have plenty of freaking light to not summon a demon, all right. Dad would be able to see what an idiot he was being by the combined craptastic colors of two nations.

He'd waited for Dean and their father to leave the apartment, still arguing about bait, given them twenty minutes, then taken the Impala. Dean would probably kill him.

Not that he'd have to worry about that, because Dad would _definitely_ kill him.

Sam wasn't too sure what he was going to do, he just knew it was such a profoundly bad idea, Dean and John – two of the most misguided fucking heroes on the planet – to be down at the Falls when the ghost of every wrong-headed daredevil to go over in a barrel, kayak or jetski was playing Red Rover with their heads. Sure, Dad. See if a demon pops up. In the meantime, Dean, why don't you take one more try at jumping over the barrier?

Those two were like an exercise in Darwinism and left alone wouldn't last the night.

_Left alone_, and Sam didn't want to think about it. He wasn't their keeper, they weren't his responsibility. Yet here he was. Maybe because of what Toad had pointed out: Dean was in danger down here. Not Sam. And their fucking father couldn't see it.

He parked the car well away from where he saw Dad's truck glowering darkly in the upper parking lot. Unless plans had changed on the drive over, Sam knew where they were going: Luna Island, nestled between Bridal Veil and the American Falls.

One or two other cars were in the lot – rangers, probably, or maybe lovers drawn out by the change in weather. It was the season. Sam didn't really want to think about that either, balled up all that thwarted affection and ardor and sucked it back.

Sam would stop Dean if he'd won the argument about being bait; that much Sam knew. Dad would get so irate that Sam was down here that the entire evening's work would be put off for another night. And if Dad had won the argument, then Sam could watch surreptitiously and help if help was needed. Besides, he was kinda looking forward to seeing Dad's face when no demon appeared.

_Told you so_, he thought, loping down the pathway, across the pedestrian bridge, avoiding the lit ranger station by the Nikola Tesla statue, which had always cracked Dean up. Tesla, of course, inventor of alternating current. Heavy metal band. Why not? Niagara Falls was a place of peculiar confluences for all of them.

Down the stairs and across the plank footbridge to Luna Island, cat quiet, because this was really courting trouble with his father, was poking him with a sharp stick. No, he reminded himself, this was standing up for yourself, was being your own man. Sam couldn't hear voices, could only see the play of light and hear the amazing encompassing roar of the Falls themselves. The air was saturated, like last night and the sprinklers except this was serious business, this wasn't anything like playful, like drunk teens on a golf course.

This was sudden death and Sam knew it.

Lights and water and noise all combined to momentarily dazzle him and he stood one foot on the bridge, one on the island, transfixed by the weirdness and the power. He didn't notice he wasn't alone until he was pushed to the ground, face-first, a strong forearm hard against the back of his neck, forcing his nose and mouth into the wet grass, someone's knee jammed against the small of his back, all the proportions and weights recognizable from a thousand fights over the years, some serious, some play, some hard practice.

"Dean," he groaned, got some dirt in his mouth for his trouble.

"You are gonna get me into so much trouble, man," but he didn't sound angry, not at all. More glad Sam was here.

The next voice _was_ angry, of course. "Sam," it started and Sam was hauled up by the collar of his jean jacket, stood on his feet not six inches from his father.

You didn't sneak up on John Winchester, that's what his face said. Sam dusted himself off, Dean stepping away, already separating himself.

"Don't start with me," Sam snapped back. "Which one of you is the bait?"

Dean looked at their father, awaiting his judgment, eyes unreadable in the bizarre artificial light.

John's face was stony, nothing soft about it. "I am." Without hesitation, and John jerked his chin towards the park entrance. "You get home. We've got work to do." That was it. A dismissal.

But Sam shook his head. "I don't hear the ghosts, Dad. Dean? He hears them. Worry about him, not me. All you're thinking about is a demon." John raised an eyebrow, blinked. "I'm not like you. I need some proof. Proof that I'm wrong."

John stood silently for a moment, bouncing on the balls of his feet, dark hair slicked back with mist, beading on his scruffy beard and eyelashes. A thin gleam of tooth. "Stay back and don't get in the way." He shifted his gaze to Dean, who Sam now noticed was tense as a piano wire. "What are you hearing?"

_Using him._

Dean hitched one shoulder uncomfortably, like he was getting called on the carpet for something. "The usual." Didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to get in the middle of it. Fucking chicken_. Take a fucking stand, Dean_.

"You don't understand anything, do you?" Sam growled at their father, and Dean sighed, hands coming up.

"Sam," he warned, low. Trying prove their father wrong, too, in his own way, by putting John's theory to the test. Unfortunately, Sam didn't have the sort of mouth that shut up easily.

"So, what now?" Sam demanded, and John matched his stare.

"Now? You stay here. Dean, you come with me."

And they turned, moon bright as daylight. Floodlights making everything blue and pink as a baby's nursery.

Difficult to miss what was so clearly there, by the edge of the precipice.

At the far edge of the island, where the iron railing bent to the corner, over which the American Falls dropped into froth, into atomized water, a figure was climbing over the top rung, a dark silhouette against the mad water. Outlined in silver.

Had beat the Winchesters at their own stupid, pointless game.

"Shit," John breathed, stepping forward three paces. Too far for him to recognize the figure.

But Sam had better eyes, had the sort of mind that put things together fast as a supercomputer. A golf course, voices calling you to glory. A willing sacrifice. Being right didn't seem quite so important after all. In fact, being right was going to be a death sentence.

"Oh god," he moaned and Dean's already troubled stare bounced between all three: father, brother, jumper at the rail.

Toad.

--

_Niagara Falls High School, Monday November 27, 2006_

Morning classes had started, but Sam had a spare. He hadn't told Dean that, was grateful for the ride, didn't want to turn down any small thing that Dean freely offered. Sam grabbed a coffee in the staff room, relaxed on the couch, taking the time to read the newspaper while his mind whirred away like a machine. He heard the pledge of allegiance. Almost fell asleep again, head jerking up.

A good night, last night. Sam had taken Elise out for dinner, gone back to her place. Stayed longer than he'd planned, and fallen asleep in her bed, only to wake at about three in the morning, realizing that he should get back, that no matter what stage of angry, drunk or hung over Dean was, he'd still worry about Sam.

Dean spent a lot of time worrying about him, Sam now knew.

_He looks at me differently now, since the cabin._ Since the demon had said what he had. What had Dean babbled to Andy Gallagher, compelled by Andy's gift? Sam was worrying him. So not just worried _about_ him. _Dad say anything before he died? _ No, nothing, Dean had said.

Dean was lying and it was slowly killing him and Sam knew it. He rubbed his temple, wished Carcetti would find someone else to do the announcements, because her voice was designed to put you under faster than surgical-grade narcotics.

_The Homecoming Dance is…our Daredevils had a successful run… all members of the decorating committee should meet Ms. Simon in the gym to…Mr. Isbister is holding the annual Geology Fair in the…_

And there, he'd almost fallen asleep again.

Except for a series of sharp cracks, distant. Probably somewhere down near the science labs. Maybe a kid had lit something up…but Sam knew the sound of gunfire, knew exactly what it sounded like, and was sitting up before he'd really processed it, was trying to pull together all the clues from his senses and memories. Was standing alone in the staff room when his phone trilled and he forgot for a minute that it was his. Slowly, he stepped into the corridor, heard faint screaming. Three more shots.

Opened his phone to answer.

"Sam," Dean's voice, not calm. "Sam, you need to get out of there."

--

You didn't forget the smell of formaldehyde. The science labs reeked of it, conjured up memories of experiments with frogs and fetal pigs, and Billy couldn't really decide if he liked the smell or not. He told Marcus – happy to have the gun Billy had promised him last night, eager to do exactly what Billy told him to – to take out the Biology class. Stupid Emily Dando was there, cleverly partnered up with Matt Outerbridge, her best friend's boyfriend. She'd already fucked him, Billy knew. Her best friend, Kaitlyn, was in Algebra right now. Billy would be sure to tell her about her friend.

He knew Marcus secretly liked Emily. He could shoot her, or fuck her, or whatever. Billy didn't care, as long as Marcus kept the others at bay long enough for Billy to find Mr. Winchester. He was working his way to the humanities classrooms, but wanted to take out a few classes first. Wanted to prove himself. Look what I can do, Mr. Winchester. Not useless.

In control. He lit one of the smoke flares his dad had kept in the emergency kit in the trunk of the Lexus, like he was going to crash the luxury automobile in the wilds of Sarajevo or something. Choking on the fumes, he threw it into a classroom. There were shrieks, and people were running in the hallways, but not many, because Billy had really good aim. Three more shots, gratified by the blood against the terrazzo floor, the way they fell all limp and surprised.

First thing he'd shot were the speakers in every classroom. Fucking Carcetti's voice. Drive anyone nuts.

_Don't get distracted. Find Winchester. He'll help you._

Billy turned the corner into the corridor leading to the humanities wing, partway to the gym. He didn't want to go near the office, was pretty sure the cops had been phoned by now. Marcus called to him, but Billy didn't turn. The gym. He'd go to the gym. Mr. Winchester would be there, wouldn't he? Because he'd heard Carcetti before he'd shot out that last speaker. Ms. Simon was in the gym taking down the Thanksgiving decorations, probably putting up Christmas ones, and where she was, Mr. Winchester wouldn't be far behind.

Sam Winchester saved people. He'll save me. He'll know what's going on. The yellow-eyed man said so. Said that he was like me, had plans for us, glorious plans. Everything made sense now.

Erica stood in the hallway, books clutched to her chest, just staring at her brother like he was a monster. Not so different from how she normally looked at him, really. Except today he had four guns on him. Two knives. Four grenades and the same again in flares. And blood, that too.

He smiled at her. "Where were you this morning?" he asked. "You missed it. Didn't get a chance to say goodbye to them."

Her mouth opened, then shut. She'd just turned thirteen, looked more like Billy than he liked, same gray eyes, except hers were the color of rainclouds. "Billy?" she asked.

"Where were you?" he asked again, but screamed it, didn't realize that's what was going to come out until it happened.

And Erica's last thoughts were:_ At track practice you fucking moron. _ Then: _What do you mean, 'goodbye'?_ He held off until understanding started to surface in her mind, till she _got it,_ then Billy brought their dad's revolver up, aimed and fired. At this close range, he didn't miss.

--

_Niagara Falls, 2001_

John got there first, but Toad turned around, saw him and shouted, "Stay back!"

John's hand came up behind him fingers splayed outwards, not looking back, warding both his boys away and Dean grabbed his arm. Sam tried to jerk it away but Dean was firm.

"Hang on," Dean whispered. "Let's see what happens."

Sam was putting it together, twisting it until all the pieces started to fall into place like a Rubik's cube, two sides complete, close. Turn, see the pattern, adjust, turn. Toad knew. Toad knew what it would take. Knew about heroes, didn't believe it was a demon at work here.

Which meant that hanging on, doing what Dean suggested, wasn't an option.

He twisted out of Dean's grip, edged forward, joined his father. Toad was looking in their direction, but Sam couldn't tell if he was seeing them – broken glasses, bright commercial lights, the mist, always the mist. Not to mention the ghosts, which must be deafening.

"Toad!" Sam called. "Toad, get down from there, man. You're scaring me."

Slowly, Toad shook his head. "Stay back. I can do this."

Sam took one step forward and Toad swayed slightly. Sam stopped, held out a hand, even though Toad was much too far away to take it. More of a plea. _Come down_. "Toad, it won't do any good, it won't make anything better."

But Toad was smiling and one hand pulled through his curly wet hair in a familiar gesture. "It's not suicide, Sam. Willing sacrifice, remember? That's what it's going to take. You're right." Wet, and dark and this was so wrong, to get a civilian involved in this. To get a kid involved with this. And Sam had been the one to do it, not John, not Dean. Him.

Shocked, Sam realized that his father had pulled him back and that Dean was now beside him, his face pale, worrying one lip.

John was looking around, eyes searching the darker corners. Hand coming from behind his belt, a gun loaded with bullets blessed by a bishop. "Give it a minute, boys. He's up there now, let's see what comes to make the deal."

Sam couldn't breathe. Forced air in, because he needed to talk. Needed to set this fucking _straight_. "Dad?" that soft, only because the air was slowly creaking in. "Dad? You gotta be fucking out of your mind."

John's chin snapped back, but Sam couldn't read his eyes, the light was behind him. "This is the hand we've been dealt. You want to end this or not?"

But Sam was past arguing, because this was life and death and Dad wasn't getting it. Didn't understand – or worse, didn't care – that Toad wasn't the bait. Toad was the sacrifice.

Toad was playing Sam's game, not John's.

It wasn't mist on Sam's face, it was tears and they were warm and salt as blood. Sam didn't make it two steps before his father's hand was on his shoulder, pulling him back firmly, grip too strong to break except with a blow.

"Stay back, let me handle it." Sam didn't quite know what his father meant by 'handling' this, might still be talking about handling whatever demon he thought was going to appear. Might not be talking about helping Toad, because John didn't understand that Toad was planning on following through. On being a willing sacrifice.

Because he could hear the voices, just the same as Dean.

Sam glanced quickly at Dean, but he wasn't there anymore. Dean was already heading towards Toad, and John realized this just at the same moment. Sam had the reach, but not the resolve, not the same single-mindedness that his father had honed to a razor-edge.

"Dean!" John shouted, and Dean faltered, looked back, bloodless face washed in lurid color, eyes wide. He stopped, had been called.

Enough of a distraction, though, and Sam took it. Sam moved quickly; Toad had swung both feet over the side, was now balanced imperfectly on Falls side of the wet slippery railing. "Toad! Don't-"

"Stop him!" John shouted as Sam brushed past Dean, who responded immediately to that tone in their father's voice and tackled Sam to the ground, pinning him. Sound of feet on gravel as their father pounded by – the gun still out like there was something to hunt – and Sam pulled his elbow back only to swing it mercilessly around, smashing it into Dean's throat.

His brother collapsed to his knees, a whine of trapped air whistling through a bruised larynx. Sam was on his feet in an instant, still trying to get to the railing, but it might as well have been the moon.

John raised one hand, maybe to stay Toad – Sam wanted to believe that – but Toad angled away, gaze to the shining lights across the river, the towers and the neon, and didn't so much jump as just let gravity take him.

It was soft and quiet, like so much of what Toad was. His fall made no difference in the quality of the water's rush, just as it had always been. One second there, the next gone.

John pressed against the railing for a long moment, staring down, one hand tapping the post distractedly like he was petting a dog. Sam watched, the tears coming in earnest now, though no sobs, nothing like crying, just tears. He blinked furiously, wiped his face on his sleeve. He stood still, not wanting to look, just staring blindly.

Finally, his father walked slowly towards them, his back bent like he had suddenly aged years, shoulders hunched up, tucking the gun into his waistband as he came. Dean was still on his hands and knees beside Sam, breath rasping.

Sam couldn't do anything about that. Could do nothing for either of them. Any of them.

John bent to help Dean to a stand, ran one hand down the side of his son's face, checking him like he was a lame horse. Reassuring himself. He might have done the same to Sam then, but something in Sam's posture stopped him.

Dean blinked, fingers gingerly touching his throat. He made a move as though to reach out to Sam, who was only a foot or two away, but his hand fell uselessly to his side, instinctively understanding that the distance was too great. Instead, he dropped his head, voice so low and strained that Sam could barely hear it.

"They're gone," Dean whispered, then coughed wetly. Shook his head like he had water stuck in his ears. "Can't hear them anymore."

And Sam turned from both of them, started to walk.

--

TBC

-


	9. Coming to Grief

**Chapter 9**/Coming to Grief

**WIPPITY WIP WIP:** Gen, PG-13. WIP, penultimate chapter. Horror/drama.

**Big Fat Violence: **I have a really high tolerance for violence. I do. Some of the rest of you, maybe not so much. In addition to the phenomenal body-count, this chapter is also incredibly…gut-wrenching. Fair warning, don't read it if your meds are needing upped.

**Beta-Beta Bing: **They kick the shit of me, but I love them so: jmm0001 and Lemmypie.

**Sleeping with the Fishes: **Hey, has anyone actually had a conversation with Kripke lately? Is he still around? They say he 'owns' this stuff, but maybe he's getting weak. Maybe we can push our product in his turf…

**STF:** Niagara Falls, 2001 – Toad, Sam's hapless friend in his senior year, has made the ultimate sacrifice to appease the power that resides in the Falls. In 2006, Billy Shuter, a teen with both special abilities and a yellow-eyed friend, forms an unhealthy fascination for his new Law & Society teacher, Mr. Sam Winchester, and decides to get his attention in a bloody and catastrophic way.

--

_NFHS, Niagara Falls NY, Monday, November 27, 2006_

The Impala was the kind of car that cops noticed; Dean knew that and mostly didn't care. There was not caring, though, and then there was outright stupid, and despite what several of his high school teachers and more than a few girlfriends had said over the years, Dean wasn't stupid. So he parked the distinctive car away from the school, knew that the campus was surrounded with bare industrial land and that he'd have to be part careful and part lucky not to get netted in police perimeter security.

It was not what he _wanted_ to do, of course.

He _wanted_ to drive the Impala through the front doors of the Niagara Falls High School lobby, crashing through the trophy cases, just going right in until he found Sam like a hound with a noseful of fox.

Coupla problems with that fine plan, biggest one being Sam Winchester. He was stubborn, Sam, monumentally stubborn, not one fucking ounce of flexibility to him. Their earlier phone conversation: _Billy's here, isn't he Dean? I think he's started. I gotta get as many kids out as I can._

To which Dean had responded that Sam better shag ass the hell outta there, because Billy fucking Shuter was coming for him. For Sam. Maybe not to kill him, either, seemed to think Sam was some kind of _mentor_. And Dean had finally shut up, shut up when it was much too late, because everything his father had demanded of him in what had turned out to be his last words on this earth was choking Dean. _Save him_. Save Sam.

Or do the other thing that Dean couldn't accept, not on any level, but was _thinking_ it, standing in Billy Shuter's bedroom, dead Shuters all over the fucking place like gory throw rugs. Was thinking about it and how he could never do it, not in a million years, and why the _fuck_ did John Winchester ask these crazy fucked-up things of him?

Telling Sam that Billy was coming for him was a mistake. Was coming _because_ of him, really. It made the whole thing Sam's responsibility and when it came to these kids – his students – Sam had developed a finely honed need to protect. Dean had no idea where this came from, at what stupid Stanford class Sam had learned it, but it was there and Dean had just jammed it in the eye with his finger.

_I'm gonna get as many out as I can_, Sam had repeated. _I'll make sure Billy doesn't hurt anyone else._ And then he'd told Dean to call the police. Like Dean was in the fucking habit of calling the police to deal with any of the things they encountered, poltergeists, hellhounds, wendigos or demons.

Halfheartedly, Dean wished for the cover of darkness, because there were only so many ways you could disguise a rifle. He opted for a duffle bag because he didn't see any way around it – he'd need a gun that he could trust over a long range. And the Glock, of course, for close work. Two knives, one strapped to his side, heavy-handled, good for throwing. The other down the side of his boot where you'd miss it if you did a shitty body search, thin worn edge sharp as a scalpel.

If the cops got him with this load, he'd be in the State pen for life. Hell, if the cops picked him up for _jaywalking_, he'd never be bending down for dropped soap again.

And he didn't really consider any of those future tenses, either, because all of them were pointless and he'd never been a future tense kind of guy.

No one watched his approach, Impala chugging along a construction road for a new warehouse complex, a couple of machines lying dormant, a _long_ long weekend for their workers, maybe. Dean scanned the vacant stretch between a derelict backhoe and the school in the distance, beyond the cold sweep of track and the soccer fields, up a rise. Three wings, two stories. The large brown architectural box had to be the gymnasium. Or the theater. _Let's say, gym, okay? Because I don't have time for dicking around._

Sam's vision had been 'gym', loud and clear. And it's where Sam would be heading because Elise Simon was going to get shot in the head and between the two brothers it would probably be good to prevent it. Dean had no idea what it would do to Sam, having her death on his conscience, but he didn't want to find out. Dean didn't even know if he _liked_ Elise, he thought he probably didn't; her being the catalyst of Sam's leaving was a pretty big black mark, wasn't it? And he grinned at that, almost laughed, recognized the sharp fierce burn of fear behind it.

Billy wouldn't kill Sam. He might do worse. He might do much worse, because there was a demon involved and Dean was dancing as fast as he could between an impossible promise and his own particular education in keeping people safe. Keeping Sam safe. Demon plus Sam and that was not an equation he wanted to finish: it got them one step closer to what John Winchester had described in his flat single-syllable style.

Checked his ammo, slung the duffle bag over his shoulder. Should he chance a call to Sam? Sam would have turned off the ringer, surely, but Dean didn't want to point any neon lights to his brother if Billy didn't already have bead on him.

Text message, then: _Coming in._

There would be police snipers in the grass, maybe, if the cops had their shit together, so Dean went in on bent knees and elbows, moving fast, fortuitously dressed mostly in khaki and earth tones today, getting wet and muddied in the process, blurring with the standing water and the cold clay and the dried grasses.

He spotted the cops long before they had any chance of seeing him. Dean momentarily settled behind a clump of marshy grass verging on the flat brick red curve of track. Plan: he'd edge around, stay in the weeds, not cross the track where he'd be spotted immediately. Besides, the cops didn't look like they had any idea of what they were doing; they were hanging around their cars on the track, talking into radios, maybe waiting for a SWAT team to come up from Buffalo.

Confusion stage, cops arguing about jurisdiction and chain of command. Opportunity.

This would be a big news story, one of those ones that John had always told them to stay the fuck away from because they couldn't risk the exposure. And with St. Louis and with Baltimore, Dean had plenty of incentive to lay low in circumstances like this.

As though Sam was listening in – _oh yeah, and _that's_ a comforting thought_ – Dean's phone shuddered in his pocket like a small scared animal, and he looked to see what Sam had sent him: _No_.

To which he responded: _FU._ That seemed completely appropriate, given that the cops were now starting to look a little more organized and Dean had maybe thirty seconds to make his move before they secured their perimeter.

Dean wasn't about to waste even one of those seconds. He crabbed sideways through the grass around the track, all the way along to the cement retaining wall at the bottom of the hill, then kept to a line of hedge, would be spotted if anyone looked. But he was moving fast, not looking back, heart hammering so loud he recalled slicing pain in a flooded basement and electric current and then realized, oh thank god, it was just his phone vibrating again, doubtlessly Sam telling him to do something ridiculous, like keep away.

Dean threw himself and the bag over a chain link fence, on the other side of the school now from the bulk of the gymnasium, but there was nothing to be done about that: getting to the gym from the outside would involve exposing himself to the police on the track below. He tried one of the double industrial doors, knew from the smell he was close to the shops, mix of engine oil and wood shavings. The door didn't open from the outside, was without a handle and wouldn't budge, but then it opened from the inside and five boys – wide eyed, panting with fear – fell out and Dean shouted for them to move, to get down the hill, get to the track where the cops were waiting.

They did, they ran, out across the gravel courtyard and over the fence, skidding like the gravel was ice. And just then Dean heard shots from an upper window, looked up and saw that by running the boys were exposed to the upper floors of another wing, a window that Dean couldn't see from this angle, and someone was up there with a rifle.

Two boys fell like their strings had been cut, clattered down, limbs flailing awkward and nerveless. Dean dropped to a crouch, one foot jammed in the door, putting it all together, helpless. Then he dragged himself inside, pulled the door shut as the other boys tumbled down the hill and onto the track. Dean knew the cops would be closing in soon, would either be opening fire on that upper story, or trying to get to the boys outside, would be doing _something_, and he couldn't let himself get distracted now.

Inside. His work was inside. And he was pretty sure if he was fast enough and smart enough, he'd get to Billy before Billy got to Sam. Because he now knew where Billy was: second floor in the wing immediately adjacent to where he was now.

Opened his phone. Sam's predictable message: _Stay back_.

Dean rapidly punched in: _2 late._ _Where r u?_

But there was no response, and Dean swore under his breath, opened the bag and got out the rifle, loaded it, pushed boxes of ammo into his pockets. Wondered what the most direct route to the gym was.

--

Sam counted twelve kids and they looked scared as shit. He didn't recognize any of them: they were younger than the kids he'd been teaching, maybe in ninth grade. Three of the girls were sobbing and the rest didn't look far from it.

They were crowded into the supply closet next to the science labs on the second floor; the confined space smelled indelibly of fear and rubbing alcohol, the shelves crammed with broken Bunsen burners and boxes of glass slides. A stack of aluminum trays lined with wax for frog autopsies, several boxes marked 'used', but Sam couldn't tell what was in them. Sam glanced at the kids, put on a reassuring face. Didn't make the slightest impression, he could tell.

"It's going to be okay. Everyone stay calm," he said quietly. Then, close by, maybe the next corridor along, three sharp reports so concussive Sam's eardrums rattled like badly hung windows. He thought about telling them to be quiet, but that wouldn't do any good one way or another, not with what Billy could do. It offered false hope in the worst way.

_He's looking for me. Maybe if he finds me, he'll stop._

Sam was clutching his phone in one hand, and it vibrated hard as though it was channeling Dean's anger and frustration. Sam read the message, cursed under his breath. _Where am I, Dean?_ He thought about taking a picture, sending it to Dean. _In a closet with whimpering kids. Wish you were here._ The opposite of what he actually meant, which was 'wish you were anywhere but here, asshole,' because this was between him and Billy; Dean would just become a casualty like everyone else. Like Elise. Then Sam heard the distinctive shuttle of a pump action rifle getting ready to fire. It echoed hollow in the corridor, the noise bouncing from metal lockers.

"Stay here," he whispered to the crowd of kids. "Don't come out unless I tell you it's okay."

And Sam opened the door, stepped out into the corridor, arms held well away from his body, looking for the owner of the gun.

Billy would be skittish, would jump at the least provocation and Sam wasn't inclined to offer him any. The hallway was empty; he wondered where all the kids had gone. Maybe out the C wing staircase and into the staff parking lot. He could hope for that. The hallway smelled of gunpowder and sweat, the cinderblock walls tacked with posters for the upcoming talent show, a football game, both photocopied on the same sickly shade of pink paper. Sam continued to walk slowly towards the juncture between his corridor and the next one over.

"Billy?" he called out, voice level and sure. "It's me, Mr. Winchester. I think you were looking for me."

Silence of the same quality as when a dishwasher suddenly lurched to a stop. Loud only because it signaled the cessation of movement. Then, a chuckle from around the corner.

A tall figure stepped into the hallway in front of Sam, gun dangling almost lazily from one hand, a slight smile playing at the lips.

It wasn't Billy.

--

_Niagara Falls NY, June 8, 2001_

The only noises were the occasional grunts of exertion, the slide of a box, clatter of wire hangers in the closet. No one was talking and that suited Dean well enough. Cold silence was better than fighting, Sam and their father exchanging insults better kept to themselves, words sharp enough to draw blood. Everyone was avoiding each other like bats in the summer sky, like they had some kind of radar, were waiting for the storm to blow over. Incongruously, sunlight filtered in through the window, peeked past the flimsy curtains onto the mussed bedding, the room looking like someone had tossed it searching for hard evidence.

How much to take with them? Dean wondered. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time they'd lived in a place so long, a time where they'd accumulated so much ordinary, everyday stuff. Last time had been…yeah, it had been Tacoma, four years ago. His senior year. That had ended well, he thought savagely, another running departure made in the heat of the moment under the cold auspices of John Winchester's wrath, Sam's outrage steady as an IV drip.

This was worse. This was so much worse. Dean couldn't think about Tacoma, and he couldn't think about here, couldn't think about what had happened last night, so he went stiffly about his business, stopping at one point to get a forgotten bag of freezer-burnt peas, and surreptitiously escaped to the bathroom where he pressed the make-do icepack to his throat.

He didn't know if either Sam or their dad would notice if his throat swelled so much he couldn't breathe, but he wasn't going to ask for a medical opinion today. Sam had a sharp elbow and there'd been a lot of terrified anger in the blow; it hurt like a sonofabitch.

It felt _just_, though. He'd earned it. What the fuck had he been thinking, holding Sam back like that? Maybe if he hadn't, maybe if they'd both tried to get to Toad – and that was stupid, was a stupid line of reasoning. They _hadn't_ worked together; Dean had held Sam back; their dad had underestimated what was going on; Dean hadn't made Sam's case well enough or soon enough.

And how did you return from this? How could you possibly say sorry for what had happened?

John had already been through the bathroom; he'd left a single roll of toilet paper and the shower curtain, but that was about it. Dean leaned forward on the closed toilet seat, wished for a towel to wrap the peas in, because cold against skin eventually began to burn.

Sam had gone out to pick up coffee. The only reason Dean knew this was that he'd seen Sam rattle the empty carafe on its burner, check the stripped fridge, the apartment's mismatched thrift store coffee mugs still in the cupboard. Rifled through his wallet, checking his cash.

Outside the cheap hollow door, Dean heard footsteps, their dad by the weight and the gait of them, heading for his adjacent room. Then fiddling with the knob of the police scanner; maybe he didn't know Dean was in here, was close enough to hear. Dean noticed that he'd waited until Sam was out. Heard the scanner's crackle and hiss, pressed the peas to his neck where they burned like liquid nitrogen. Somewhat experimentally, he tried to swallow, but it was still too sore.

As he stood up to spit in the sink, he looked in the mirror, wanting to see how bad it was; it didn't look nearly as bad as it felt, was only a smear of mauve and sickly yellow, mottled like a Chinese watercolor. The damage was deeper and it didn't show.

He pressed the peas against the hurt again, wincing. In the next room, John must have adjusted the knob to get a clearer signal, because for a moment Dean could hear perfectly: _yeah, not getting anything…you sure it's the kid's shoe?…whirlpool rapids, bringing the boat around, but we're not gonna find...No, maybe try the rocks, between the…better keep the press…yeah, I know it's a kid…can you call it in or what? I don't see any sign of the…_

Last night, after they'd gone back to the parking lot, no sign of Sam, John had been stoney, unapproachable, and Dean, nursing what he hoped wasn't a crushed larynx, nursing a deep seated and all-encompassing dread, had slumped against the passenger-side window of the truck's cab, nostrils wide to take in the combined scent of defeat and cold water.

On the way home, John had suddenly pulled over, agitated and unspeaking, had almost taken out a phone booth beside the highway, jumping out like he'd spotted something to kill, and then picked up the receiver, dialed 9-1-1 and reported seeing a jumper. For the first time in his life, Dean, window open a crack to the fresh night air, hadn't recognized his dad's voice.

They wouldn't find Toad's body, of course. It had been taken by the god, or the Snake, or whatever power moved in the water. Property of the divine, now, a willing sacrifice, what the god had required. Dean had known immediately that it had worked. Running towards Toad, that moment when his father had yanked him back with a word, what had he been trying to do? Save Toad? Or something else? _Over over over_. Then the shocking silence. From the moment he'd dragged himself to his hands and knees, his breath barking noisily through the most amazing pain in his throat, he'd known. Toad had done it, had taken the theory, put it to the test. Had believed enough for all of them.

_Glory._

Someone should tell Toad's mother than it hadn't been suicide, not really, that it had been more like a soldier's death, taking an impossible hill against impossible odds and falling in the process. Sacrifice. Someone should tell her.

Without thinking, he tried to swallow but coughed instead, face screwing up in pain. He opened the door, heading for the kitchen, tossed the peas into the freezer, a housewarming gift for the next tenants: Welcome to Niagara Falls. He was both exhausted and keyed up, ears ringing unpleasantly, needing sleep, needing respite. Needing to get the fuck out of here.

He looked into his dad's bedroom; the door was open. He could still hear the police scanner crackling away. John, sitting on the bed, his head bent into both hands like he'd banged his skull against something unyielding, reached out and slowly turned it off, like movement cost money today. Dean licked his lips, wanted to say something. He opened his mouth and a little croak came out, lancing heat up and down his neck. He grimaced and John looked up in that second, met Dean's eyes. No disguising any of it, for either of them. Just a shared look, a moment of complicit misery.

Dean tapped the doorframe with an open hand, surveyed the room as though he was casting about for things to carry out. John sighed, gut-weary, ran a hand over his head, and then let it drop to his knee. The room was pretty much empty. An open canvas bag beside the scanner; John was already packing up the unit, dropped in there beside papers and his journal, a few folded shirts.

Other than towels and pillows, there wasn't much to decide about: two vehicles this time, though. That was new. How to divide the stuff? How much should they bring?

What was the fucking point in bringing anything?

The door slammed and Sam was back, a single cup of coffee in his hand, just one more of his many ways of saying 'fuck you' loud and clear. Get your own damn coffee. Dean turned from the doorway to his dad's room, came into the kitchen, meeting Sam's stare. It wasn't just anger he saw there, it was bigger and deeper and so fucking vast that he could barely register it, let alone understand it.

The weapons were already stowed, all that was left were clothes and towels, pillows and blankets. The soft things, nothing that mattered. Sam crossed the room, went into the bedroom, came back out with a duffle and a stack of books – Golding and Spanish and three school binders overflowing with notes. He proceeded to the large garbage bin Dean had dragged up from the alley, the one that stank of animal urine and rotten vegetables, and chucked the books in, all of them.

It was at this point that Dean had to turn away, had to suddenly wipe his face with his hand, because it was too much. They'd done this too many times, it wasn't getting any easier, and this time took the fucking cake. He was at the sink, so he ran the tap, got a plastic cup from the shelf, poured himself some water, swished it around in his mouth. Let a little trickle down his throat, still too difficult to swallow. He spat it out, dumped the cup, splashed some water on his face with one hand, rubbed it through his hair.

He was ready to go, just wanted to get the Impala on the road and drive like there was no tomorrow, head south, maybe, get to the Gulf of Mexico, lie out in the sun like a cold-blooded beast, because he was cold inside for all that it was early June.

Sam was considering his duffle bag like he was wondering if it would fit in the bin as well. He glanced at Dean and took a hit of caffeine, jaw working.

John came out of his bedroom, a bag over his shoulder. He had a map in one hand; he'd already made a series of phone calls – the school, telling them that Sam was taking summer vacation early, giving them Pastor Jim's address for any correspondence. Mail his diploma there, yes please. A call to Mr. Lum, telling him they were leaving and that they weren't looking for a refund on the remainder of the month's rent. Canceled the phone; Dean didn't even remember what name Dad had used this time. One call to Pastor Jim himself, and that had been brief to the point of rude, even for famously taciturn John Winchester.

John put down his bag, unfolded the map and manhandled it flat onto the kitchen table. He glanced up at Dean who saw everything that was going on in those dark eyes, all of it; he knew his dad better than anyone. No surprise how much harder John seemed now that Sam was back in the room. He had to be, the armor was necessary because Sam had weapons, but Dean had seen what it covered.

"We can make it to North Carolina by tonight, if we leave soon." He didn't look up and Dean came to his shoulder, peered over it to see the line John was describing with his finger, running all the way down the Mississippi. "After that, head south to the Delta." Right to the Gulf of Mexico and Dean wondered if his dad knew him equally well, or if they were just similar in ways he was only beginning to guess.

Dean wasn't paying attention to the actual route, really, only concentrating on being quiet, so he heard it. The breath Sam took as though he was crossing over an invisible line, was about to make a goddamn speech.

Only one word, though. The one that had been his first, actually. One of Dean's earliest memories: Sam in his high chair, not yet one, Dean trying to feed him mashed bananas, Sam shaking his head, mouth clamped shut until forced to state his case.

"No."

Both Dean and John looked up from the map at the same time. Sam stood between the table and the door, the bag on his shoulder, jacket and Converse All-Stars on, ready to go.

_Ready to go._

"No?" John repeated, nothing of weight to it, just a sound.

Dean wasn't surprised, he realized with a dead feeling in his chest. He took a step back from that table so that he could see both of them at the same time, had the terrible premonition that it would be a long time before they all were going to be in the same room again.

"I mean, no, I'm not going to North Carolina. Not going to Mississippi."

Like the room was full of flammable gas and Sam was standing with a box of matches. Dean's hands were on the back of the chair, gripping it like he was hanging over the edge of a cliff.

John shifted his stance in the way he usually did before he threw a punch. Ready. Ready to go, both of them.

John laughed, a little cautious. Curious. _Calculating_. "Well, where are we going, then?" Giving the pretence of allowing Sam _input_. Actually taunting him with a whole lot of rope. Dean recognized it; he wondered if Sam did too.

Dean saw the swallow his brother took, saw the way his empty hand hung by his side, saw that it shook a little. "I don't have a fucking clue where you're going, Dad. Never have. But I'm not going with you." He shook his head emphatically, eyes hard and steady. Just one look at that hand, though. That told the story.

John came around the table, and Dean adjusted his position minutely, didn't know what he'd have to do, didn't know how to fucking stop this, it was like a huge wave, an avalanche. Unavoidable. Holding back the deluge with nothing but his bare hands.

"This about school, Sam? Because I think you're done. They'll forward your diploma to Pas-"

Sam was laughing, hard and lethal, jagged as a busted window. "I don't give a shit about school. This isn't about school. This is about you."

Wound up and let loose like one of those toys, his string had been pulled and there was no way Dean could make Sam shut up. Even so, Dean opened his mouth, had a lifetime's worth of platitudes, the 'it's gonna be all right's, the 'we'll figure it out's, the marching Sam out the door and telling Dad to cool off over his shoulder.

That's what you did with kids. Sam stood there, a kid, always a kid, but now grown up and separate in a way that Dean immediately apprehended, but didn't _comprehend_. "C'mon," came out like cement sliding down a metal chute, full of vibration and grit, but neither brother nor father looked his way.

"About me, is it? You think I wanted this to happen?"

Sam had a smile big as the state of Texas, and he could make you feel like a million bucks with it, or use it to club you senseless. He wielded it now, bitter and huge and it brought John's sudden forward movement to a halt. Dean hadn't realized he'd moved to get in between them until he needed to take a step back so Sam wouldn't crowd him.

"You didn't do anything to prevent it. All you wanted was that goddamned demon. Shit, even if there'd been a demon – which there wasn't, but hell, why listen to _me_ after all – even if there'd been one, do you think the price was worth it? A kid's life? My friend's life?" His face screwed up and the smile faded. "How could you?"

It was like a slap in the face and John's mouth twitched, then hardened into a sharp line.

"I was trying to save lives. That's what we do, Sam."

"Well, great fucking work, Dad." A hiss, viperous. It was already ugly; it was about to get brutal.

"So what now, Sammy?" That terrible chuckle, part broken glass, part rolling dice. "You're going to stay here? Get a job at Mr. Lum's store? Sell a few vegetables?"

Sam's smile was back. It was an awful weapon to have at your disposal. "Not that I expect you to understand, but I have options. No thanks to you."

Dean backed up against the wall, understanding that they didn't see him anymore. It was like being a ghost in his own family.

John's turn to smile, big and ugly. "Like what? What are your _options_, boy?"

Sam shook his head. "This is fucked up, Dad. Who the hell does this shit? This chasing around ghosts and demons and dead things? Raising us like wild animals. It's not right." He was flushed, and Dean had some sense of how much Sam had been holding back, holding in, how badly he needed to say all this. Sam's voice dug deep, like he was in a tug of war and wasn't about to lose ground. "And I don't want any part of it."

Sam hefted the bag to a more comfortable position, or maybe just needed to move, but it allowed John a sliver of time to marshal his own arsenal, which was not, in the end, inconsiderable.

"You think I wanted this for you?" Soft, cold, snowflakes in a nuclear winter. Radioactive. Poison. "You think this is what your mother and I talked about when you were born? She was _protecting_ you. It's the least we can do."

"What? It's my fault she's dead? Oh, that's just great, Dad," and Sam moved again, was getting closer to John. John took a step forward too, and that was all Dean needed.

He slipped between them and immediately felt his father's hand on his shoulder, moving him out of the way. Dean held firm, expecting that. Sam was close on the other side and Dean kept his head down so he wouldn't have to look at either of them, wouldn't take an accidental blow to the jaw.

"_Enough_," he rasped, barely audible, both hands pushing them away from the other.

Trouble was, Sam had such a long reach.

His arm came around Dean just as John was trying to get Dean to one side, the older man not even seeing Dean, Christ, just wanting whatever was between him and his bullheaded, disobedient son to get the hell out of his way. An obstacle, that's what Dean was in this moment, nothing more.

Sam's hand grabbed a handful of John's shirt, which just made John come on stronger, and Dean was suddenly crushed as both rushed the other. He got his hands up, pushed firmly and both staggered back, all breathing hard.

John spoke first like it was his right. Maybe it was. His right to come out swinging, fuck things up first. "Sam, get your goddamned gear into the car. Give yourself some time to cool down. Do it now before I lose my temper."

No smile now on Sam, all cold, standing straight as a tree so tall it was heartbreaking. Eyes obsidian dark, glittering. He shook his head, but was calm. Dean looked at his father, could see the thin veneer of control breaking. Watched his father's face as he heard Sam's voice, still calm, say the words: "I have a full scholarship to Stanford, Dad. I'm gone. I'm done with this."

Dean turned slowly, literally unable to breathe, nothing moving inside him, not heart, not breath, not blood. Not able to think, let alone say anything. Done with this? This being family, this being them, together in their painful inconclusive way, this. _Him_. Dean was not separate from _this_, was just gray on graveyard gray, part of the same unwanted whole.

Sam wasn't looking at Dean of course.

Every bit of his attention was fastened on their father, all that mattered.

"You walk out that door," John whispered, "don't you ever expect to walk back in."

Sam smirked, but there were tears running down his face and the effect was more desolate than triumphant. "I wasn't planning on it."

Turned. _Out the door._ Just like that.

A long moment passed, Sam's steps down the stairs echoing, then fading.

Dean stood perfectly motionless, looking at the door, at the impossibly empty door, then John came around him and slammed it shut. It rattled like distant thunder moving off the plain. John brushed past on the way to the window, knocking Dean's shoulder, maybe by mistake, maybe wanting contact of some kind, a fist a shove, something, anything. Dean wondered if John knew, if he _understood_, what he'd done. Then his dad turned, hand scrubbing his face, eyes darting back and forth, almost panicked.

Oh, yeah. He knew.

Into his room for a few minutes to do god alone knew what. Hiding some reaction he couldn't share with the world. With his son. The one who remained.

Dean couldn't move, couldn't go out the door, go to the window, couldn't move a muscle. Didn't know what to do, what could possibly make it better.

Then John was back out, still pale under the scruffy beard and wild hair. He grabbed Dean by both shoulders, turned him roughly to face him. His eyes were bright in the same way brass knuckles were bright. He'd conquered the panic, or at least relegated it to a backroom. "Dean," he said clearly, like he was talking to an imbecile, "Dean, you haul his ass back here. I don't care how you do it."

What? Was he _joking_? Dean's brows quirked together. John licked his lips, always more patient with Dean than anyone else, even now. "I mean it. He'll listen to you. I don't know what he thinks he's doing, he's just upset. We're all upset." A pause again, followed by a small shake to Dean's shoulders that he knew his father was holding back on. John wanted to shake Dean so hard his teeth would break. "Go get him."

Released, Dean nodded once, had been given a mission. A suicidal, foolish mission every bit as asinine as standing at the edge of the Falls waiting for a demon to appear, because Sam was at least as stubborn as John.

Sam had a scholarship to some college. He had a _plan_, had been working on this, had thought it through in that careful way of his, sizing up all the angles, working out the details, doing his research. There would be no talking him out of it, no repairing such extensive damage.

But what else could Dean do? Was he going to say no to his father? No to John when he was this angry, when Sam had done such a pitch perfect job at defying everything John had taught them, everything he valued? _Raised us like wild animals._ Maybe. Even so, John must have known full well how badly he'd fucked it up. How badly _they'd_ fucked it up. They had done this together.

But once Dean closed the apartment door behind him, he leaned against it for a long while wondering how this flood could have taken them up so unawares. There was only a sea of chaos now, as far as the eye could see.

--

_NFHS, 2006_

Sam stared at Marcus Delindo, wondering what the hell to do now, because he'd never had any sway over this one, no control whatsoever. Marcus reminded Sam of every schoolyard bully he'd ever crossed paths with: intellectually dull, vindictive, able to find fault in the littlest thing. A miniscule sense of self-worth turned inside out.

"Marcus," Sam breathed, trying not to show his surprise. His alarm.

"Mr. W." Marcus held the gun a little more firmly, a half-smile on his face, sheen of sweat across his brow, staining the front of his t-shirt. He'd exerted himself killing his fellow classmates; it was hard work.

"So how does this end, Marcus?" Sam asked, mind moving beyond this encounter, because where the hell was Billy? In it together, certainly, Marcus only useful as an extension of Billy's murderous hand.

"Dunno, Mr. W. Got some ideas, though." And he brought the rifle up, almost an afterthought.

"Billy's really got you wrapped around his finger, doesn't he?" Sam licked his lips, hoped like hell the younger kids stayed in the closet with the broken science equipment because Marcus had blood all over him and didn't seem at all inclined to stop now. "This wasn't your idea."

Marcus shrugged. He was taller than Sam, given to the dumpiness of too many bags of chips in front of the XBox. "Does it matter?"

Sam wondered about Marcus's aim, his reflexes. He edged a little closer, kept his hands up. "Might to a jury." He paused, both of them knowing that Marcus had no intention of going in front of a jury. That's not how something like this ended. "I have some business in the gym."

In the distance, beyond the cinderblock hallways and the banks of lockers and smashed windows, Sam heard sirens. An explosion. Screams, far away like a crowded college home crowd lamenting an interception.

Except not quite.

The muzzle of the gun came up and Sam tried to work out how fast he could get to Marcus, if he could knock the gun aside, and realized that he wasn't magic after all. There was a bullet in there and it was going to move more quickly than Sam's body could ever hope to duplicate.

The gunshot, when it came, was so loud Sam thought he'd gone deaf. His body turned away reflexively, ears pounding, a flash of white as he closed his eyes, trying not to fall, trying to keep his feet –

He uncoiled to a stand, saw Marcus splayed on the corridor, a bright spray of blood across the lockers – painted orange in this section of the school – and pooling beneath him, one hand twitching, his head twisted to an angle that defied Sam's inspection. Misunderstood little fuck, all of eighteen and what did you know of world but this? Smell of spent gunpowder amazing. Sam turned slowly, not knowing if Dean would even care about killing a kid, not in the shape he was in, and not a kid that had a gun trained on Sam.

But it wasn't Dean; it was Billy.

He wore an army-style jacket, pockets bulging ominously, the tight cigarette leg jeans hitched high, cutting into him, black t-shirt too tight, a rifle slung over one shoulder. He cradled a handgun against his chest; maybe the recoil had hurt his wrist, big gun like that. His eyes settled blankly on Sam.

"He was going to kill you, the stupid asshole," Billy said.

Sam swallowed. "So it would seem." He listened carefully, couldn't hear the kids in the closet, but his ears were still buzzing from the blast. "What now?" Fear sizzled through every nerve ending, not for himself, really, but for all the rest of them. Billy was armed to the teeth, but Sam had gone against worse in his lifetime. Hell, over the last month he'd fought five or six things that were more deadly than a hormonally-charged kid with a rifle. Had his own weapon handy, mind you. Still, just a kid.

"The man with the yellow eyes says you're one of us."

Yeah, except for that, okay.

Sam looked over his shoulder, back to Marcus. He should help him; maybe he wasn't dead. "I'm going to check Marcus now," he said and Billy pointed the handgun and put a single shot in the back of Marcus's head. Sam flinched, blood misting on his pant legs.

"I wouldn't bother," Billy replied. "C'mon, I got something to show you."

Sam didn't move, just blinked, heart going like it had forgotten all the rules. "The yellow-eyed man tell you to do this?"

Billy shrugged, a small grin tugging one side of his mouth. Shook hair out of his eyes. "Nah. I've been thinking about this for a while. Planning it out. Takes planning, you know?" He looked at Sam, really hard. "You know about planning, right? That's what you're good at, he says. Thinking a bunch of moves ahead, making sure you got everything you need before doing what has to be done." He seemed really impressed with that, leaving Sam gulping for air. "I have no idea what you're thinking. You know how weird that is?"

Sam brought his hands down, looked back at Marcus. "I have some idea. What else did the yellow-eyed man tell you?"

"Bring you to the gym. That you'd …" and here he stopped, faltered, not understanding. "He said you'd save me."

Fuck.

"He said that?" Sam asked.

Billy nodded. "If I cleared everyone away from you. That you'd shine. That you'd save me."

"You need saving, Billy?" _What else did he say?_ Marcus's rifle had come to a rest beside the lockers, nearer to Sam than to Billy. He tried not to look at it, because even though Billy might not be able to read his mind, he wasn't a dummy. But still – keep him talking, not so much to get away now. Not so much to rescue the rest. But because Billy knew. _All the children like you._

The kid shrugged, looked for all the world like he was any bored teen, except for the slight gleam in his usually disinterested eyes. It spoke of need, of something that Billy was trying hard not to show, to acknowledge.

It mattered, of course, knowing what was going on in the yellow-eyed demon's head. But other things? They mattered more and Sam knew it. _Take charge of the situation, Sammy. Any way you can._

"I do what he says-"

"Think for yourself, Billy." Sam interrupted, causing Billy to blink in surprise. Not used to being interrupted when he had a rifle in his hand. "Take a fucking stand."

A calculated risk, of course, a complicated set of weights and balances.

But it didn't add up the way Sam wanted it to: Billy brought the handgun up, pointing it at Sam, crossed the corridor, stepping over Marcus's blood. He bent to retrieve the fallen rifle, gun on Sam the whole time. "This isn't enough of a stand for you, Mr. W?" he asked, straightening, perhaps running through his own array of complex equations.

Billy continued, "He said you might need saving as well." He casually waved the gun at Marcus again. "Maybe Marcus wasn't what you need saving from after all." He glanced up through greasy hair. "Maybe you need saving from yourself. C'mon. I got them all down in the gym. Let's go." He got behind Sam, prodded him with the rifle. "This is gonna be fun. I promise."

--

_Niagara Falls NY, June 8, 2001_

By the time Dean got out to the Impala, Sam was nowhere to be seen. He didn't waste too much time, because there was only one destination that Sam could possibly be heading for if he was serious.

Dean had no doubt Sam was serious. Sam was as fucking serious as a bullet to the head. Dean only had a vague sense of where the bus station was, even after living here eight months, so he circled a couple of blocks, trying not to think logically about 'routes' and 'headspace', just going on gut.

Sam wasn't difficult to spot with the height and the ramrod-straight walk like half the vertebrae in his spine had fused. A residential street lined with sycamore and maple, radiant green in the sun, uneven sidewalk making an imperfect surface for children to play. Didn't stop them, though. Sam leapt to the side and a posse of kids with training wheels whistled past, then he half-turned, maybe hearing the Impala.

Sam was mad, not stupid. He wasn't going to outrun Dean in the car. So he stopped, put the bag down, and Dean could tell he was chewing the inside of his mouth, not looking forward to what came next.

Dean pulled over to the curb, reached across the seat and unrolled the passenger window. Sam didn't move from the sidewalk.

"Sam," Dean called softly forcing a ragged cough, which he covered with a hand. He watched Sam take a deep breath, shoulders rising and falling, his jacket jammed between the straps of the duffle bag, a warm day already. Sam looked away, then took a few steps on the grass verge, stood for a moment at the window and all Dean could see were skinny hips and torso, a t-shirt once army green now some weird gray from being washed so many times, soft as a chamois. Then Sam, as he leaned in.

"What?" he asked, voice low, curt.

Dean rolled his shoulders, looked away, wished he had his voice now. He could do things with it, his voice, he knew. Could cajole, sweet-talk, soothe. Reminded himself: _There's no coming back from this. He's made up his mind. No fucking wonder, either._

"Get in," Dean croaked.

Sam sighed, stroked the doorframe with the fingers of one hand. "I'm not going back." But that was resignation, that wasn't anger. Worse, really.

Dean couldn't look at him. "I know," he agreed, nodding, slid one hand across his mouth, muffling his thrashed voice. "Bus?" Raised his eyebrows.

Everything was circling round, new leaves, sunlight, kids on bikes, chalk games sketched temporarily on pavement, the ephemera of full spring. Dean had the disconcerting realization that all this would pass, all these things. And still the Falls would thunder on as they always had. Quiet now, and distant, sated perhaps, but present in a way nothing else was.

Especially not Sam, who picked up his bag as though it was loaded with cannonballs, the door creaking open, then slammed shut, and Dean just kept on looking at him, couldn't stop, had to take his fill. He gave Sam the sort of look that could prompt the childish provocation, 'why don't you take a picture?' And Dean would have, maybe, if he'd had a camera. But photography wouldn't halt anything, was just light and chemicals, nothing more permanent than what was here and now, so what did it matter?

Sam accepted the long look. Returned it. Finally, though, he'd had enough. "Two blocks that way," and Sam jerked his nose to the east. "Just drop me off."

Dean turned the key in the ignition, world still reeling, nothing solid. "D'you-" and tried to clear his throat. No fucking way was he going to let Sam know how much this hurt, how much any of this hurt. "Do you need money?"

Sam looked away, shaking his head. "No. I don't need money." Sam wouldn't, of course, would have worked through the details of how he was financing everything. Dean wondered when Sam would have left if Toad hadn't died, if they'd have had a summer together, if it would have ended with something different than Dad and his darkened doorstep.

Probably not, John being how he was.

Sam fidgeted a little with the strap of his bag and Dean could tell he wanted to ask something, but couldn't think of a way to do it gracefully, keep his pride intact. So Dean pulled away from the curb and no matter how slowly he drove, two blocks was no distance at all.

"Sam," Dean started, hoping to get him going. Fuck, why the hell was he hoping for anything? It was impossible. "Sam, he didn't …"

"I don't want to talk about it," and the sun hurt it was so bright. Without looking, Dean knew Sam was crying and sometimes that drove him crazy, and sometimes it made him cave, and today he just didn't know what to do with it.

The depot was typical of nondescript bus terminals across the country, barely holding itself together with paint and patched concrete. Travelers milled about outside in the sunshine; more movement inside through the open double doors and the large plate glass windows. A large mural on the outside wall cheerily depicted the Falls, a happy painted guy in a barrel waving from one corner. As Dean found an angled parking spot outside a row of vending machines, he was glad he hadn't actually seen Toad go over because seeing something like that would ruin you for life.

He hadn't been able to protect Sam from that.

He cut the engine, swallowed, forcing it down past the pain. He would get through this. They would all get through this, one way or another.

"We could keep driving," Sam whispered suddenly, voice heavy and liquid with tears, drawing his brother's gaze. "The two of us. Gas up and drive all the way to California."

They were looking at each other and Dean knew exactly what Sam was saying, knew what he meant, that they didn't have to do this, that they didn't have to live like this, that there were roads still open to them.

It was more tempting than Sam probably knew, but it was only a dream, like everything else today, the sunlight and leaves and whirling sky.

Slowly, Dean shook his head, but Sam had already looked away, that bitter smile pulling dimples on one side, one hand tapping his jeaned thigh.

"Forget it." The other hand on the chrome door handle, and _this is it_, Dean thought, _you get out now and everything changes forever_.

But it had already happened, wasn't a sudden abrupt end of an era, really, other than the sucking void of Sam's impending absence, which was so close now Dean could feel it opening in him like a wound. The _lack_ of Sam. But Sam's leaving had been gradual, had happened over months, was so incremental it had occurred in geologic time, a wearing away of the ties that bound.

All this now was only the snapping break of the final frayed bindings; at the most basic level, the worn bindings held together elements already separate and apart. Sam had known it long before Dean, and playing catch up was never a game Dean enjoyed.

"Hey," Dean said. Took a deep breath, braced for the pain of talking because fuck it if this wasn't important. "Be careful."

Sam nodded once and pulled the handle, door creaking, up up and out, dragging the bag with him. He stood for a moment like he was going to say something else, but nothing came, not from either of them, and so Sam finally turned and walked into the bus station, merged with the other travelers like he belonged until Dean could no longer make him out through the windows or the doors.

Dean sat for a little while and when he was sure he was steady enough to drive without plowing the Impala into a parked car, when he could see again, he slowly backed out, retraced his route, but it all was so different this time, a river that had changed its course, cutting new banks, utterly unfamiliar.

Not until he parked the car outside the Chinese grocery and saw his father's black truck, boxes in the cab, did it occur to him what he would now have to do: climb the stairs and face his father's abiding rage and disappointment. Alone.

John would be waiting and the anger would eventually turn to sorrow, maybe to guilt. And this would be it, this would be the new river, wherever it flowed.

--

_NFHS, 2006_

Those gunshots had been close; maybe the next wing, but certainly the same floor. Dean had already found three dead: two kids and someone who might have been a teacher, a big man, fat as Santa. Followed, more happily, by a half dozen kids huddled in an empty classroom that he'd had to use every ounce of persuasion to entice out. He'd made sure they'd taken the far stairwell, where Dean was pretty sure the sniper couldn't get to them.

They hadn't asked about his armaments, about who the hell Dean was, how he'd gotten inside. Once he'd heard them leaving through the double doors on the ground level, he'd kicked himself. The gym. He should have asked which way the fucking gym was.

_Shit. _

Then the first gunshot, close. Followed after a length by another shot. Handgun, not rifle. Dean had the Glock out, rifle held loosely in his left hand. He pressed against the lockers – he was in the orange zone, apparently – and slid along to a T in the corridor maze.

Just before he got there he passed a closed door with a wire-mesh reinforced window. He glanced in and saw a row of pale faces staring back at him. Deep breath. He held up one finger to his lips then gestured that he was going in the direction of the T juncture. He wasn't looking for agreement, just letting them know what he was up to, making sure they didn't start shrieking.

He emptied his mind of everything, just listened, heard nothing, moved on silent feet to the corner. Looking down at the floor, he saw blood, progressing like a stately river. The floor was uneven, and the blood was heading for lower ground, just like any liquid given tilt. Deep breath, gun good to go, peeked around the corner, got ready to have his head blown off.

One body, a big kid, on the ground, categorically dead because a gunshot to the back of the head didn't leave much room for speculation.

Nothing else, though.

He came back to the closet, opened the door and said softly, "Okay, what went down out there?" They all started talking at once and three of them started wailing. _Shit, great crisis line counselor voice, Winchester. _ He waved a hand around, universal gesture for shut the fuck up. Pointed. "You. Tell me."

A tall skinny girl, maybe fourteen, looked like she could handle herself when everything went to hell in a handbasket. Wasn't crying and hadn't wet herself, anyway. "Mr. Winchester told us to stay in here until it was safe."

"Where is he now?" he asked carefully, trying not to anticipate the answer.

The girl cocked her head to the side. "He didn't come back. There were two gunshots. Voices."

"You recognize the voices?"

"Only Mr. Winchester. I didn't recognize the other ones, but they sounded like students. Someone said they were going to the gym."

Dean nodded, already looking around for the quickest way out, preferably a route that didn't take them past the corpse in the hallway because shit like that just freaked people out. "Okay. Follow me." The students looked at each other in surprise.

"But Mr. Winchester said…"

Dean rolled his eyes and swore at them. They startled badly, scared, but took his direction. _They're just kids_, he reminded himself. He herded them to the far stairwell, hoped it was still safe. Before she disappeared through the doors, Dean grabbed the tall girl's arm. "Which way's the gym?" he remembered to ask. Goddamned school and its corridors.

She thought about it, blinked, then stammered, "Down this hall all the way to the end. Go left, then a quick right. Stairwell A. Go all the way to the basement and turn left. No, right. Past the drinking fountain. You can get into the gym through the locker rooms at the end of the hall."

Great. Down the fucking bunny hole. He nodded and told them to go fast, keep running till they found the cops. As he turned away, it occurred to him that the cops would kill him just as easily as Billy would.

He didn't find any other students as he went, thank god. You never got used to seeing dead kids, he thought for the second time this day. His morning had started with a dead child, Billy's sister. He'd seen a lot more now. Maybe it hadn't ended yet. He had to stop, then. Right in the middle of the corridor, leaning against the fucking orange lockers, face screwing up, hating this. Like some kinda nightmare, wandering school hallways, lost, looking for Sam, finding only bleeding children, a demon looming over all of it. And even further back: what had been on Billy's computer screen. _Local boy in Falls tragedy_. And Sam going. Sam gone.

Dean pulled himself off the lockers, wiped sweat from his face; the furnace was going full-blast and it was hot in the school, maybe an administrative ploy to keep the kids sedated. What had the girl said? Stairwell A, to the bottom. Water fountain. Locker rooms.

He couldn't find stairwell A. He found stairs marked B and already knew where C was. Found the D set. Where the fuck were the A ones? Orange lockers, then blue. Green. Then, the crack of a distant rifle, single shot and Dean's breath caught. Phone.

He tried Sam again.

_Where r u?_

No answer. _Fuckfuckfuck_. Where the hell was stairwell A? Another gunshot and Dean thought he might go a little wild, might hit something, felt every molecule in him straining for a fight.

Turned a corner and there, laying on the floor like a child making a snow angel, was the second blonde girl from the Cayman beach, gold hair haloed out from her, gray eyes to the sputtering fluorescent light on the ceiling. Perfect hole right in the middle of her forehead.

Dean stood still for a moment, just looking, all sensation slipping away like sand through fingers.

Then, something gave in him, a wall that had been slowly worn away from one side, just _crumbled_, and he leaned heavily against the wall, slid slowly down until he was sitting on his heels, staring at Billy's sister who had not escaped after all, who had found an ending at her brother's hands despite Dean's hope otherwise.

The breached wall did not release rage, or fear. Its fall set loose something else that Dean had been keeping close for too long, ever since John had coded on a hospital bed. And though he had business, had lives to save, it was still a good five minutes before Dean could take his eyes from her and lift them to the door beyond, which was marked.

A large vinyl sign: black san serif A in a white circle. Stairs beyond.

Dean finally named what filled him, identified it and tapped it easily as fury, which had masked it. _Grief_. He tried to put it away and it almost fit, but not quite, because it was huge and thrashing and it had a taproot in him that went straight _down_.

_It'll have to do_, he thought hollowly, getting to his feet and stepping over Billy's sister, pushing the door open and taking the stairs. As he ran three floors down, right into the bowels of the building, Dean slid the safety off the Glock. It was open season now.

--

TBC


	10. Over, Over, Over

**Chapter 10**/Over, Over, Over

**Destination:** Niagara Falls, of course. Gen, PG-13. Complete. Horror/drama. A smidgen of angst. A big freakin' smidgen of angst.

**Travel Advisory: **High body count. Blood. General wretchedness. Unforgivably wordy.

**Cabin Crew: **I never leave home without them** -- **jmm0001 and Lemmypie. They make sure I have the right documentation, that the meals are hot, and that I'm not carrying any firearms or illegal drugs. Wait. No. They don't do that last thing.

**Your pilot this flight: **Without him, we got nothing. Captain Kripke steers the plane; I'm just your on-flight entertainment.

**Our route so far:** It's been a little while since I've updated. What can I say? RL's a bitch and you want to get the last chapter right. So it takes a while. A reminder of where we left off, then -- Niagara Falls, 2001 Sam has left for Stanford; Dean returns to the apartment to face his father. In 2006, Billy Shuter has decided to shoot up the school. Sam is his hostage and the object of his fascination. Dean, having drifted precariously close to the edge for most of this fic, is about to go over. We good? Excellent.

--

_NFHS, November 2006_

Mr. Winchester was beginning to get on Billy's nerves.

First of all, he was all upset about Marcus when what fucking idiot would worry five seconds about Marcus Delindo – fuckforbrains was only going to get himself the needle one of these days and Billy had just saved the bovine taxpayers some hard cash. Mr. Winchester was concerned about the students, whether they'd all gotten out, kept telling Billy that he had to let them go. Billy supposed he could let some of that slide; after all, they were almost not worth the effort of thought, they were so slow and stupid.

But Mr. Winchester's concern over Ms. Simon was a little more difficult to take.

It wasn't as though she'd been particularly brave; she'd cried along with the rest of them when he'd shot the gym coach Ms. Lafferty and Melanie Grissom, captain of the senior girls basketball team. Girls. Needed to let them know he was serious. After the remaining students, all ten of them, Ms. Simon and two of her decorations committee members, had stopped screaming, Billy had put those plastic restraints around her wrists and ankles.

Not as though he'd had much choice: he wanted to get Mr. Winchester here in the gym and he needed Ms. Simon to do that and also? Mr. Winchester would know he meant business if he got rid of Ms. Simon in front of him. Proof of Billy's resolve. Proof of their bond.

It was how the yellow-eyed man had said it should be.

But when Mr. Winchester had come into the gym and seen them tied up, he'd almost freaked. Then when he'd seen the bodies and the blood, the teacher had been unnaturally quiet. Billy had allowed him to go to Ms. Simon then, while Billy had dragged the two bodies to one side, thrown some towels over them. It was the eyes. He didn't like looking at their eyes.

She's a distraction. I should put her down.

"You know, Mr. Winchester," Billy said, looking at Ms. Simon, "she's worried that you're too young for her."

Mr. Winchester, crouched beside Ms. Simon, froze. Looked at her first, then slowly turned to Billy.

"Stop it," he whispered, then glanced back at Ms. Simon, one huge hand on her shoulder, drifting softly and silently to her hair.

Billy pulled on his dog collar, reloaded the rifle, eyed Ms. Simon. Could hear her, clearly. _Sam shouldn't be in the middle of this, I don't care about myself, I don't care, but Sam…_

"Nothing you can do to save her, you know," Billy continued and Mr. Winchester came quickly to a stand, his head cocked to one side. He was pretty freaky tall. "She's still obsessed with her daughter, doesn't really care if she lives or dies. But she's not proud of herself, fucking you. One of her students."

Mr. Winchester came forward, but Billy raised the gun. He might be tall. Just made more of a target. Billy knew about guns; his dad had taught him. They'd gone hunting together. The teacher stopped, hands held slightly out from his side.

They had a bond stronger than whatever pathetic thing Mr. Winchester had with Ms. Simon. He'd prove it.

"You deserve better, and we all know it."

Ms. Simon was now thinking all sorts of pathetic things, mostly about her daughter. For pete's sake, the woman really couldn't move on, could she? Billy would be happy to help her move on.

Mr. Winchester sighed, slowly edged towards center court, drawing Billy with him.

After all, deep down, they were alike. He was Mr. Winchester's student. And Mr. Winchester was not only going to save him, he _wanted_ to save him. It was all going to be fine, Billy just had to make a clearing around him, like you would a big tree. Take away some of the underbrush. Let him shine.

That's what he'd been told anyway.

The voices were so loud. He didn't even hear the crying anymore, really. That was like white noise, the constant rumble of an air conditioner on an August afternoon. But the voices in his head ebbed and surged, receded and advanced. Mr. Winchester was the one quiet place in Billy's noisy universe, right there in front of him, hair hanging in his eyes, which flicked nervously back to where Ms. Simon sat against the wall, now comforting a hysterical Molly Atkinson.

Then that concentrated stare was back on him.

"Don't even think about it," Mr. Winchester warned, calm but firm.

And, inevitably, Ms. Simon's yammering. _Oh my god, he's insane, don't kill Sam, please don't_, and then an idea of what it was like to have someone Mr. Winchester's size next to you, and wanting him, and _don't kill him, please don't kill him. He's just a boy, _and then remembering Mr. Winchester as Sam, as a tall gangly kid with a sheepish smile and a Thoroughbred's skittish temperament at the starting gate.

Billy glanced back at Ms. Simon. You stupid bitch, he thought. I'm not going to kill him. I'm going to free him.

He half-shrugged. "Ms. Simon," he called, waved the gun, but stepped back out of Mr. Winchester's enormous reach. He took a few more steps towards the girls.

Ms. Simon looked around, eyes panicked, not wanting to get nearer. Her thoughts were now too terrified to be properly coherent. Billy was coming to understand that most people got like this under stress. Nothing stuck, thoughts like marbles thrown across a hardwood floor.

"Get up," he barked at her, and pointed the gun at Molly's head, real casual. Ms. Simon knew what he'd do, and the implied threat was enough. Hard for her to get up, with her ankles still in the plastic restraints. Fun to watch.

Still, if he was going to do it, he should do it quick, before Mr. Winchester figured out that Ms. Simon was dead meat.

--

All the way to the bottom, past the fountain. That was as much as Dean retained. Amazing that he could remember even that. Locker rooms: he chose one at random, didn't register if it was girls or boys, not until he saw the clothing scattered around the maze of lockers and cold benches, clothing belonging to girls. He knew what that looked like, clothes dropped in haste across a room.

Tiled floor, tilted so water could drain, and Dean was literally sick of cants and what those did to liquids. Knew a little too much about it, how blood would run to the lowest place, would form a river. He saw the drain in the middle of the room, but no blood. The sound of showers, of running water, registered, an echo of more thunderous waters.

He had both guns out, couldn't remember where he'd dropped the duffle bag on his travels.

_I am losing it_, he thought briefly, then clamped his jaw shut and shook his head from side to side and didn't really care how loony that looked. _Nah. Not yet._ He edged past sodden white towels dropped carelessly on the slick tiles, stood at the threshold of the showers, looked at the floor first, looking for any sign of…_Don't think it. I'm just seeing what's there, doesn't pay to have an imagination in this line of work._

Four showerheads were going full-blast, still running hot with a boiler the size a school must have, the entire locker room thick with condensed steam. Empty, thank Christ. They must have gotten out. And he closed his eyes for a minute, allowing himself that. Those other kids had gotten out too. There must be a thousand students at this school, at least. Most had found safety outside. Reminded himself of that.

_Remind your fucking self that there's still the gym, Winchester._

Pushed himself out the shower room, looked around for the door to the gym itself. He realized as soon as he saw it he'd be going in blind, because there was no window in the door, no way of knowing what he'd be walking into – corridor, storage room, gymnasium wide open like a shooting gallery. Dean pushed the Glock into the waistband of his jeans and held the rifle in his left hand, eased the door open with his right. A quarter of an inch, no more.

Not much to see: some spars and joists arranged like a trestle bridge, fluorescent lights strident above, blond wood flooring. He settled for a moment, quiet, straining to hear. Echoing space, the gym all right. Crying. Low voices in conversation. One of them Sam's, cadence instantly recognizable to Dean.

He nudged the door open another inch.

The girl's locker room opened up underneath a set of folding bleachers filling one side of the gym. Beyond the bleachers, between the plank seats, he could see moving figures, but he couldn't quite tell who was…_oh, screw this waiting_, he thought, slipping out the door, shutting it quietly behind him.

His boots could make a hell of a racket, so he walked quickly on the balls of his feet behind one of the uprights, sank to his haunches, hoping to assess the situation a little more clearly before coming up with a plan.

Not much to plan, though: Get a clean shot on the crazy motherfucker.

It was a big gym, two basketball courts, nets down ready for play, posters and streamers peeling from the walls, some kind of decoration left over from a dance, maybe. The paper turkey he spotted right away and had to swallow. Fuck. This was it all right, what Sam had described to him weeks ago.

About twenty students, girls, huddled on the floor against the far wall, tall white athletic socks, shorts, an interrupted gym class. Same wall featured a double set of doors ironically declaring 'exit' above them. Even from under the bleachers, Dean could see that there was something through the handles. Not substantial enough to be chain – maybe whipcord or plastic restraints. The doors were jammed, in any case. No exit there. Two other sets of doors were similarly secured; Billy had them in lockdown.

And in the middle of the gym, almost center court, Sam stood, hands held wide, button up shirt loose, non-threatening, like he wanted someone to pass him the ball. _Hey, over here, I'm open! _

Idiotic mostly because Billy Shuter stood not five feet from him, big hunting gun in his hands, lots of bulky gear stowed in that Army surplus jacket, looking like he was thinking of passing him something, all right. Shit. Where was Elise?

Dean scanned the floor, looking for what he wasn't going to imagine – found it. Two bodies, lying by an overflowing wheeled bin of basketballs. Someone had thrown – towels, maybe – over them, but the blood had soaked through, was pooling on the boards, creating a dark lake around them.

They hadn't prevented it after all. Not that Elise was any more – or less – worthy of saving than the kids Billy had already murdered, but she was important to Sam, was the whole reason they'd come back here. Dean didn't know what her death would undo in Sam, didn't even want to think it. Sam had shouldered a lot of death in the past year, and one more might break him, might push him…

If Elise were already dead, Sam wouldn't be standing in the middle of the gym calmly trying to talk Billy into handing over the gun, that's for sure.

Then Dean spotted her, comforting a sobbing girl near the double doors, one hand smoothing the girl's hair, petting her like she was a cat. She held her hands in a strange way, and Dean realized that her wrists had some kind of restraint on them. But she didn't have a bullet hole in the middle of her forehead; they were not too late for this. To save this one life out of so many.

Dean could hear Sam's voice, calm. Directed at Billy, his words doing what Elise's hand was doing. _That's it, keep him occupied_, Dean thought, eyeing the bleachers above his head. He swung one hand up, deftly shinnied up to the top, hooked one knee around a post. There. Much better vantage point. Didn't want to hit Sam, after all.

He knew this rifle; it had been his since he was twenty-three. A birthday present.

Sort of.

The rifle had been the kind of present John had left out on the coffee table at some decrepit motel in Arizona, had merely nodded to it, told Dean to strip it, clean it, put it back together. Didn't call it a present, since it was two weeks past Dean's otherwise unmarked birthday. Still. Take what you could get.

Long range practice that winter, their first one just the two of them, more than Dean had thought he'd been able to bear, noting John's approval in his silences and his later trust during hunts.

There had been a lot of hunts that year. That's all they had done, furious, desperate, slaking some unbearable thirst for blood. _After. After what had happened._

Dean's aim was good, had always been good, even as a kid. The point: this was an old friend and Dean wasn't going to miss.

He balanced the rifle between his shoulder and his left hand, rested his elbow on the riser, leveled his sight, looked down the long barrel at all that waste of flesh, that mad dog, that poor excuse for a human being, looked at Billy Shuter and felt his anger down deep inside, swirling with what he thought might be loss or some other useless indescribable.

They were standing very close to each other, the two of them, both marked by a Demon as special, but Dean trusted his aim. Trusted.

Billy was what Sam could become, maybe, but Dean shied from that and instead grabbed at the fleeting edge of the anger, which went down hot as single malt liquor, held the trigger.

He was pulling something in, not letting something go.

--

Could almost see it, the bullet's impact on skull, like he'd done for his sister. Could do it now, right there in the middle of the gym, center court. The rifle came up, what a mess at this close range.

_C'mon, you useless fucker, just a bit to the left._

A new voice, differentiated on two counts: Male. And deadly calm. For a minute, Billy thought he'd had a breakthrough. That he could hear Mr. Winchester. But he remembered the voice, remembered the hard, sparse quality to it. The anger, constricted and under enormous pressure, carbon squeezed into diamond.

Billy turned suddenly, eyes roaming the bleachers. Where the hell is he? And just at that point, Mr. Winchester made a funny noise in his throat, something of negation in it, a protest. Billy stood very still, then saw the shadow under the bleachers, saw it far too late to bring his rifle round for a decent shot, far too exposed to take any kind of shelter.

"Dean!" Mr. Winchester shouted and then…and then stepped in front of Billy, his arms held very wide, making himself appear bigger like he was scaring off a wild dog or a bear.

Billy smiled, and pointed the rifle at Ms. Simon, yanked her to her feet, brought her close against his chest. She was tiny, yes, only came up to his chin. He pulled her into him, one arm around her throat, and she gave a little half-scream. Mr. Winchester turned his head and Billy could see the rim of white around his eyes, the sheen of sweat.

"Get him down," Billy whispered. "Or I'll blow her head off."

Mr. Winchester met his eyes, and Billy didn't have to be a mind-reader to know he was pissing the teacher off. Poor Mr. Winchester. Too many people around him, all holding him back. Need to let him shine, need to clear away the brush so the sunlight can get to him.

"Dean!" Mr. Winchester shouted. "Dean, you're not going to get a clear sight line. Pull your shot. We'll figure this out."

All the way across the gym was pretty damn far for Billy to hear anyone, but the gunman – Dean, his brother, apparently – was full of cold fury, and that counted for some. _Fucking bleeding fucking heart, Sammy. Step aside. I gotta clear shot, shit. I gotta _kill_ shot. Just let me end it._

Billy didn't exactly know how Mr. Winchester was making sense of it, but the tall man didn't move. "Dean," he called, less than a shout now. Mr. Winchester had a strong voice, and it carried as well as his brother's thoughts, especially in this empty echoing space. "Dean, he's got a gun on Elise, and he's already…I can…just get out of the school, Dean! Just…" and Billy cocked the rifle with a loud click, turned the muzzle of the piece to the back of Mr. Winchester's head, pressed it firmly into the shaggy hair. Mr. Winchester shut up in a hurry.

"You," Billy shouted, and this was rich, wasn't it? Mr. Winchester was so confused. These people – the students, Ms. Simon, and this brother especially – confused the shit out of him. It should have been so easy. Kill them all. Kill them all and come with me "You – your name's Dean? Whoever the fuck you are. Come out, hands up. Put your gun on floor when I can see you."

_Aw, Sammy. Jesus, see what happens?_ and then a whole lot of incoherencies because of the anger, yes. But because something else too: Billy had a gun pointed at Mr. Winchester, at _Sam_, and that kicked up a bunch of shit, was like taking a big stick and stirring up a riverbed.

You can get to this guy through his brother, Billy understood immediately.

After a long minute during which no one said anything, there was dark movement under the bleachers and finally a muddy figure came out from behind the stands, both arms out to the side, a long rifle in one hand.

"On the floor. Both your guns," Billy called. The reporter – Mr. Winchester's brother – gave a wry smile.

_You little cocksucker. By the time I'm finished with you, you're not going to be able to sit for..._

"The guns, okay? Enough of the fantasies."

The man named Dean grimaced, but put first the rifle then a handgun from his waistband on the gym's floor. "So, how's this work, Billy? You just gonna kill us all?"

"Billy," Mr. Winchester started, but Billy swept the gun back to Ms. Simon.

"Shut up," Billy said, but it came out as a wheeze. "All of you!" But there was no way they knew how to do it and Billy found himself wishing that maybe he'd listened a little harder to the yellow-eyed man's instructions on how to block out unwanted thoughts.

_See, Sam. This is where your ethics and morals gets us. Here. Back in fucking Niagara. This place is gonna be the death of me._

Something to use, finally, because this asshole's armor was thick. Back to Niagara, and their father and Sam leaving and it was all gathered up together in this mass of incomprehensible grief, laid out like a corpse for Billy to dissect.

Billy smirked. "Yeah, guess you don't like it much here, do you?" And that brought this Dean guy up short. He stopped, blinked those big eyes like Billy had smacked him.

But was silent. Sort of.

_Course I don't. Oh, fuck. Sam. Sam?_

"Ms. Simon told me all about it. How Mr. Winchester had to run away from home to get away from you. She said someone died. Wasn't just someone, though, was it?" Gathering now, greedy for information, and this idiot was supplying it, just shedding it like layers of too-warm clothing. "Mr. Winchester's friend, Sam's friend. Fat kid. Your fault, maybe? Sounds sad."

Billy stared at the gunman; he was breathing hard through nostrils widened in surprise, or fear. Not exactly anger anymore. Fear, but not of Billy, or even the gun or what was happening in the here and now. Fear of the past, which Billy was expert at mining. Billy heard: _You know nothing about it._ But there it was, _Local Boy in Falls Tragedy_, a kid at the Falls at night, a shadow against garish light, there, then gone.

Pain, inside and out.

_Dad_, a man so angry that Billy's breath caught against it, recognizing the man again, recognizing the anger and imagining the yellow eyes, which had come later. The father – the yellow-eyed man – had wounded this Dean guy in a place so deep he didn't even know it existed. _Sam, you get out of the car, and everything changes._ Fear of being alone. Mr. Winchester, younger, _Sam_, sitting in a car, tears. A bus station – Niagara Falls, painted guy in a barrel and _we could just gas up and keep driving and you have no idea how bad I want to._

A black truck, packed with cardboard boxes, and a set of stairs. Back up the stairs, one heavy foot at a time. Fear of what he would find. Fear of what he did find.

Billy looked first at Dean, then at the younger brother. He still didn't understand why blood relationships conferred such feelings, but Dean had just handed Billy a weapon. His grip around Ms. Simon's throat tightened and he turned back to Dean, a wide smile creasing his otherwise passive face.

--

_Dean looks like shit_, was Sam's first thought. He was covered in mud, had some blood on him too. His rifle and his Glock over there by the bleachers. Weaponless. Too pale, mouth in a thin line like that could stop Billy from hearing him.

Sam hadn't figured out if Billy had a range yet, hadn't determined when and what he could hear. Every so often the boy would shake his head, making Sam wonder if he had much control over it at all.

Still, it was pretty obvious he could hear Dean and they all knew it.

"Your dad was pretty fucked up by it, wasn't he?" Billy asked Dean, who flinched, pulled up, and Sam wished his brother was anywhere but here, because this was the kind of shit that Dean would never say, was messy unexplored territory designed to stay that way. It was the stuff that Sam usually wanted to hear, the real deal.

But not like this.

He could see how hard Dean was trying to keep a blank mind, but it was like trying to tell someone not to think of elephants. Soon as you said it, there they were.

"Billy," Sam interrupted, looking at Elise, trying to convey a promise_. I won't let you die here. _"Let them go. I'll stick around. We'll…"

"Shut up," Billy whispered. He had a chokehold on Elise, her bound hands were up at his arm scratching ineffectually, her breath coming with difficulty, toes brushing the boards. The gun – a big hunting rifle – was now pointed at Dean.

Dean didn't seem to notice. He fired Sam a black look, blaming him. Maybe rightly. But.

_Jesus, Dean. I know Billy's fucked up, I know it. But he's a kid. And I don't know what it'll do to you, if you kill a kid. You have enough crap weighing you down._

"It was so hard," Billy continued, almost cheerily, now directing his conversation at Sam. "So hard getting left behind. You never knew what it was like, Mr. Winchester. How out of control it got. How fucked up they were by it."

Sam cleared a throat suddenly Gobi dry. "Stop it." It was begging; it came out as though Sam was the one being strangled. "Just let them-"

"Your brother here? He tried to hold it together after you left. That's what he always did, right? Just held the center while you and your dad went at it. You've never asked him about those months, shit those _years_, have you? It was a fucking bloodbath, what happened, after you left, the shit they killed. Him and your dad. Dean was actually happy that you'd gotten out, that you were making something-"

"Shut up!" That wasn't begging. Not anywhere close to it.

--

It was kind of like watching yourself get operated on. That had happened to Dean once or twice in his life, when he'd been on the receiving end of a bad blow, far from an ER and the civility of anesthetics, had seen interior bits of himself that you really ought not to, been awake when someone – his dad, Bobby once – had sewn him shut.

But this kind of messing around inside him? This _sucked_.

"Yeah, that's right," he found his voice, finally, wondered if he could somehow just block Billy out if he talked enough. He couldn't feel the opening, couldn't feel how Billy was getting in, how he'd crawled right inside his fucking head. "We made do. Funny, how killing a lot of different kinds of evil can make just about anything right."

The worst part was that Sam was hearing all of it. He'd never asked, he'd never wanted to know. He'd gotten on that bus and four years had passed. The first of those four had been indescribable and Dean didn't want Sam to know, not ever.

"If only that was true," Billy laughed, tightened his arm around Ms. Simon's neck. She made a little squeaky gasp, like a plastic doll. "Was everything you killed evil? You sure about that? Whatever makes you sleep at night. But it never filled anything for you. Just one big empty space."

Not one big empty space. It was huge all right, but it was full. Full of guilt, and loss. Full of every possible painful thing in creation. Dean couldn't remember most of that year, not clearly. A lot of death. A lot of blood. A lot of hard liquor and bar fights and county lock-ups. Some him, yes. But mostly John.

It was impossible, seeing their dad like that. Undone.

Dean shrugged, half turned away, his hand coming up to his knife under the flap of unbuttoned coat. He knew a thrown knife wasn't as fast as a bullet and Billy had that rifle pointed right at him. He wouldn't make it past cocking his elbow back to throw, no matter how fast he was.

But it was a way of shutting the asshole up.

--

"_Dean_," Sam warned and Dean turned, a wild expression in his eyes.

_I don't need to know what's going on in that head of yours, Dean. I don't want to hear it from him._

Dean halted in mid-turn and his right hand, his throwing hand, came out from his side. Empty. Sam knew his brother would not have been fast enough; he would have been dead. The knife was a desperate move to stop Billy's inquisition, that was all, not a real solution. That's how accurately Billy was reading Dean's memories, and Sam's heart caught fire and he wanted to kill Billy then with his bare hands.

So what now? They looked at each other, Sam and Dean. It was good that Sam couldn't read people, that it wasn't his dubious gift. It was a violation, what Billy was doing. Dean blinked, considered Sam for a long moment, and Sam saw the change when it came.

A flicker of his eye, the line of his shoulders straightening. Fingers curling into a fist. Mouth twitching, about to let fly. It was Dean gearing up, just the same as how he jammed a clip into the Glock, getting ready. Dean's game was offense, he hated waiting around for someone else to do something.

Sam watched as Dean took a breath, saw the pain and the shadow. Saw the smile.

--

What the hell does he have to smile about?

Billy had seen the damage Sam had left in his wake, seen what it had done to this small fucked up family. It was ugly, and it showed what power Mr. Winchester possessed. Then the two brothers had shared a look, and Billy knew that Dean didn't want Sam to know any of it. Wanted to protect him, thought it would hurt.

Didn't want to lose him again, pathetic wretch that Dean Winchester was.

Mr. Winchester should hear it. He should know the power he had, it should be shouted from the rooftops.

So why was Dean smiling?

Then, quick, so sudden that Billy had no time to prepare for it, Dean switched gears, the horror of the first year Sam had been gone replaced by newer memories, equally horrific.

Two memories intertwined, and one was familiar. Was fresh.

Blood. And loss. Everything wrong, a feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. A hospital room, and a child's bedroom, winking light from a cheap plastic ring, spill of a dropped paper coffee cup. Sound of a flatline. Of a morning show blaring from a kitchen countertop. Below these memories, driving them, an underground river always: grief. Bone deep and endless, because they were loved and they were dead and it was his fault, Dean and Billy's both.

--

Sam saw all the blood drain from Billy's face, leaving it pasty and green. It was spectacular.

Dean shook his head. "Billy, you don't know anything about being a brother, do you?" A little smile salvaged from the wreckage. A shrug. So typically Dean that Sam felt his heart constrict in his chest. "I was just there. In your house. You read minds? You want to know what that looked like? What _you_ left behind?" Dean was a like a wounded animal: more dangerous for being hurt, willing to try anything. Finding weakness, taking opportunity entirely without premeditation, operating wholly on gut.

Billy backed up one step, the gun still trained on Dean who gave it as much attention as the floorboards. This was provocation as dangerous as the knife, Sam realized, but didn't know how to stop Dean from _thinking_.

"So, yeah, you can kill your father and your step-mother. I guess some parents might deserve it," and Dean laughed, a dark sound, nothing of amusement in it, "but your sister? The littlest one? She was what? Maybe eight years old? That's not your fucking job. You're her _brother_." Sam knew Dean wanted Billy to understand what he was saying, that this was more than just a bid to fuck Billy up; that Dean was saying something important.

And maybe it wasn't just for Billy to hear.

"Your other sister, the one here at the school?" His voice was quiet for all that, stripped down. Something so very basic: Dean revealing the nature of evil. Duty. Maybe love, even if he'd never admit it. Sam was unable to pull any air into his lungs, hearing this. "You don't put a bullet in them, Billy. That's not what you do. You protect them. You keep them safe. And when you need to, you let them go."

But Dean wasn't looking at Sam, so Sam had no idea what Dean was actually thinking as his words came out. Sam, concentrating totally on his brother, had almost forgotten Billy, but then he heard the miniscule movement, the slide of skin against metal, almost preternatural, knew Billy was going to shut Dean up and there was only one way to do that completely.

One sideways step, and Sam was between the gun and Dean.

The barrel was level with his chest. Behind him, Sam heard the sound Dean made, a despairing groan. Only one, though, and his next movement would be for his knife. "Billy," Sam said. "Billy, if you stay here, you're going to die. Either the cops, or Dean, someone's going to kill you. I don't want that. The yellow-eyed man doesn't want it." Time to entice him out the door, like waving a steak in front of a wolf. "We can get out if we work together. Leave everyone here. No need to kill them, it would take too long and be too noisy; the cops are probably all over the place now. If we leave, just the two of us, we can be quick."

"You'd come with me?" But that was soft, those were the words of a sixteen-year-old boy who'd been visited by evil, whose whole family had died at his hands. His head was probably reeling from what Dean had just shown him. Billy had nothing but whatever stories the Demon had filled his head with, fantasies of freedom, maybe, of power. Who the hell knew?

Sam nodded slowly, one hand reaching out back towards Dean, trying to stay him. _Oh, god, Dean, I can see a path out of here, just let me try it for a few seconds. You've killed enough things._ And that last wasn't an admonishment, it was a plea. It was close to a prayer.

With one fast movement that Sam didn't quite follow, Billy shoved Elise to the floor, where she landed hard, sobbing for breath. The gun was still on Sam's chest, so he didn't move, though everything in him wanted to. "Your brother has a knife, doesn't he?" Billy said, graveyard quiet.

Sam remained silent.

"They'll be able to untie everyone after we go."

"Okay," Sam agreed. "Dean?"

A sigh. Loaded.

"Dean?" he asked again.

"What?" Dean said.

"Why don't you help Elise up and get over there by the others. Did you come in through the locker rooms?"

Another silence. Man, Dean wasn't liking this. "Yeah."

"Okay, Billy?" Sam asked, tried so hard for calm.

Billy stared around Sam, at Dean. "You shut up," Billy whispered, and Sam wondered if Dean was replaying the scene at the Shuter house, the dead bodies of his family. Dean could concentrate on shit when he wanted to, when he had to. He'd found a way to fuck Billy up and he would push for all it was worth.

"Okay, Billy, Dean's going to go over to Elise and then you and me, we're going to go out through the locker rooms under the bleachers there. Okay? We don't have much time." He took a step away, leading Billy away from center court. Dean had a frighteningly accurate throwing arm, and that knife was a good one, so Sam made sure he kept himself between Billy's back and Dean, hurried them to the bleachers and only when the range was shit did he turn around.

Dean was standing very still, hadn't gone to Elise yet, just looked at Sam, face unreadable.

_I'm not leaving you_, Sam thought, wished that Dean could hear him. Instead, he nodded once, then jerked his head towards Elise and the girls and Dean finally moved, his knife in his hand. Ready to cut the plastic restraints that kept them captive.

Through the change rooms, steamy and warm as a tropical jungle, Sam murmured to Billy to keep moving, keep going.

Never mind that Billy still had that big rifle trained on him. His grip was slightly haphazard, somehow negligent, half-hearted. Billy didn't want to kill Sam. They stopped in the corridor outside the locker rooms and Sam tried to recall the different ways out, tried to imagine himself a cop trying to get in, especially as the girls were probably out the doors by now, maybe, and Dean would be thinking about killing again, that and not getting caught by the police.

"Billy," Sam stopped him, laid a hand on Billy's sleeve. The gun wasn't even pointed at Sam anymore. "You know that the yellow-eyed man killed your mother. It wasn't your fault. You didn't kill her. You know that, don't you?"

Billy's face was blank, the unwashed hair hanging lank in his eyes, which were bloodshot. Sam was depending on Billy caring about this, but maybe he didn't. Maybe nothing much moved in there. Dean had gotten to him, but Sam didn't know how.

"He thought she was in the way. He killed her," and Sam licked his lips. "Just the same as he killed my mother."

"But," Billy whispered, eyes narrowing. Sam's words were having an effect, he just was unsure what _kind_ of effect. "But your father – he had yellow eyes too. Was your mother in the way?"

Sam nodded. Screwed up as that explanation was, it was accurate. Just not causal, not directly. Because his mother had died the way she had, John Winchester had eventually been possessed by the Demon. Not the other way round.

"Well, it's probably for the best." No grief in there, no awareness of love, or loss.

"It wasn't for the best, Billy." A deep breath. "He's evil, the yellow-eyed man. He's a Demon. He needs to be sent back to Hell. He's using you."

The gun's muzzle came up slightly, but Sam didn't flinch. "Lookit," Sam whispered, "he doesn't want to help you. Doesn't want to help me."

"He wants to make us powerful. Strong."

"We already are, Billy." Sam ran a hand through his hair. Convincing people of things had always been a talent. At least, with ninety-nine percent of the population. His father excepted. And Billy? "He wants to control you."

"That's not true." Billy sounded almost bored. "You don't know that. He says you don't really know what you can do yet. That you're scared. Scared of what you could become."

And that was the truth. Sam blinked, looked away. _Okay, Billy. Let's see if you've been given a kill order then._

With one hand, he grabbed the barrel of the rifle, pulled hard and it came out of Billy's hands. Just for a moment, and Sam understood he wasn't going to get it all the way because Billy was already grabbing it back. They were standing beside a T-junction and Sam knew that one corridor would take him to a stairwell where he could access the ground floor. So he turned, trusting that Billy wasn't quite ready to shoot him yet.

And ran.

He was awfully fast, had won cross-country events, had long legs and stamina, and Billy in his too-tight clothes and hours in front of a computer terminal wasn't going to catch him. He would chase him, though. The promised savior was getting away, and Billy would chase.

Sam was counting on that.

Up the stairs before Billy even understood what was going on, before he had the gun securely back in his hands. Sam was opening the door to the main hallway just as he heard Billy's footsteps pounding up the stairs, echoes percussive and desperate. One gunshot, designed to scare Sam, but Sam didn't scare easy, not given the possible outcomes of sticking around.

Out into the hallway, skidding around the corner as he heard the door open behind him, and an incoherent shout of rage. Billy wasn't thinking clearly; Billy might take that shot now. Sam had been depending on being the one person Billy wouldn't kill. Now he wasn't so sure.

The main hallway was wide, but mostly remarkable because it was _long_ – it ran the entire length of the central building, intersected by smaller halls and by the main lobby. Sam was heading for the lobby now, but couldn't lose Billy, not if this was going to work.

He turned in time to see Billy slide into the corridor fifty feet behind him, the lobby still another twenty away from Sam. Sam backed up slowly and Billy kept coming, the handgun out now, leveled at him. Sam kept eyes on Billy, walked backwards.

"You should stop, Mr. Winchester!" Billy shouted. "Because I'll kill you. Better you're dead than against him. You know that, right?"

The hallway opened out into the lobby and Sam, still in Billy's sights, glanced to his left, into the space filled with trophy cases and notices and the art class's fabric sculptures. Filled with a half-dozen SWAT members in helmets and bulletproof vests and long-range rifles. Sam swallowed, stared back at Billy down the corridor, who did not yet have the same angle as he did and couldn't see the police in the lobby.

"Don't-" But Billy did. The sound of the handgun in the corridor was deafening. Not just one shot, either, but three. The first buried itself in the locker immediately to Sam's left with a sound like someone swinging an aluminum bat at a mailbox. The second ricocheted off the terrazzo floor, chipping stone to powder, disappearing down the corridor, maybe to be found later, a spent slug with no victim.

The third, though. Well, that was different. Even moving, Sam Winchester presented a pretty big fucking target, especially this close. Billy wasn't likely to miss. But Sam chose that moment to dive into the lobby, to get the hell out of the shooting gallery the corridor had become, a literal sitting duck. He slid like a base runner stealing home as the shot passed harmlessly above him, the SWAT members surging forward. He heard shouts, screaming, another shot, and then more shouting.

A SWAT member helped him to his knees, then to a stand. Asked him over and over, words seemingly out of synch with his lips, "Are you okay? Did he hit you? Are you okay?" Sam heard helicopters, loud speakers.

He suddenly and fiercely wanted Dean beside him.

He turned, and Billy was right there, his arms pinned behind him, a huge SWAT member on either side practically lifting him from the ground. Dangling. Billy seemed perfectly calm, a slight smile on his lips.

They stared at each other. Then Billy said, "Hey, so tell me about the youth offenders laws in this state. I skipped a grade; I'm two months shy of my sixteenth birthday. Mr. Law and Society – what am I likely to get, do you think?" Cocked his head, and Sam saw a sliver of tooth. "Pretty insane to hear voices, don't you think Mr. Winchester?"

And Sam knew that Billy wasn't going to get sent to an adult prison, wouldn't even see the inside of a juvenile unit. Insanity plea. Yeah, who wouldn't believe him, because all of it was kind of insane, wasn't it?

Sam had no words in him, and as Billy was hauled away outside to a waiting police van, Sam felt as though he'd been kicked right in the stomach. Billy had known all along that he was going to get away with this. He'd depended on it, and so had the Demon. The Demon was depending on a lot of things, apparently, and wasn't being proven wrong in many of his expectations.

It wasn't a comforting thought.

Sam was escorted to an awaiting paramedic unit, several ambulances clustered together under a makeshift tarp to ward against the news helicopters that had come in from Buffalo. A variety of kids in states of bloodiness and shock clustered around the field hospital, many openly weeping. Beyond the ambulances, police and more police, fire trucks and State troopers. Every description of uniform. Parents. Pandemonium.

His phone shuddered. Text: _OK?_

Sam stood quietly. Hell of a question, Dean. _OK. You?_

Too hard to phone and Dean had done enough talking today, apparently. _OK. Need ride?_

Too fucking dangerous, Dean in the middle of all these cops. _No. Later._ That seemed too harsh, after what had been said and done. _Thanks_. More would be too much, so he turned off the phone, slipped it into his pocket.

He kept looking for her, not finding her, didn't know how wrecked he must have appeared until a paramedic told him to sit down before he fell down. Gave him some oxygen – my god, was he hyperventilating? Maybe. Just maybe. Someone would be along soon to take his statement he was told, but Sam didn't want to stick around for that.

He was trying to figure out how to leave, how to get out of there, when he finally saw Elise. He put down the oxygen mask, walked across the parking lot to where she held a sobbing girl – Molly Atkinson, Sam saw – in the relative shelter of an open ambulance door while Ms. Carcetti looked on, her face strangely fallen, a soufflé gone wrong. Sam stood for a minute in front of them, stood for what felt like long time before Elise looked up, blue eyes steady in a face splotchy and swollen.

Elise tried to smile, all watery and bereft. Sam reached down, touched a hand to her cheek. They had all lost so much today. But that wasn't what was going on with Elise, he realized. Her loss was older, was permanent, and it was almost unbearable. His coming back hadn't healed it, hadn't solved anything. A bullet to the head might have been a kindness.

As soon as he thought it, his vision swam and he swallowed hard, heard the little cleared throat Carcetti made as she turned away. Under his hand, he felt Elise shake, but when his vision cleared, she looked calm. Resigned.

The Demon stole something else from Sam in that moment, because Elise was gone in some essential way, was lost to him. Sam smiled back, nodded to her and kissed the top of her head before moving off into the crowd.

--

Things didn't tie up all that neatly.

Even though he really didn't want to, Sam eventually gave a police report. There were bizarre inconsistencies: some of the girls said that a second man had been involved in the rescue from the gym, but Ms. Simon and Mr. Winchester didn't mention him and no one had been found in the thorough search of the school.

Billy, undergoing a barrage of psychological tests in a juvenile psychiatric facility, said so many different things that no one could really credit any of it. Difficult to say what the insurance was going to pay out, but his was a high-profile case that already had a celebrity lawyer attached to it.

Sam was planning on getting lost long before it came to trial.

After walking away from the ambulances, one of his student's grateful parents had given him a ride back to the motel, where he'd found Dean sitting on the bed, an empty expression on his face, looking like he needed to sleep for a week. As soon as Sam had gotten in the door, Dean had looked up, nodded.

He didn't want to talk, of course.

He hadn't asked about Billy, or about Elise; he hadn't asked about _anything_. Sam knew it wasn't because he didn't care – it was the opposite, in fact. The very opposite. Dean had taken the first shower, then fallen into the bed and been asleep before Sam had finished his.

They both slept a lot over the next five days. Sam was glad of it, they needed it. And it made certain things easier to take: the final death toll, Billy's insanity plea, Elise's departure for Georgia.

Inevitable, and maybe the easiest thing on both of them. Her brothers were there and nothing much tied her to Niagara except bad memories. "You'll always take her with you," Sam told Elise when he drove her to the airport. She accepted that, mostly because it might be true and was certainly no less true than many other things that had become fact.

It was past time for them to go, though. Dean was practically bouncing, he was so anxious to get the hell out of the city. They didn't have anything to go toward, not yet, but that hadn't stopped them before. Niagara was full of cops and memories and death, and Sam was so sick of it he felt like he might scream.

He'd lost a number of students, and there were funerals to go to and he went. God, he hated funerals.

The school hadn't re-opened, wouldn't for a good long while. Sam talked to Carcetti, told her to issue his last check to a mailbox in Kansas City. She'd seemed both regretful and relieved at his departure. Before he left, though, she gave him a box, told him that she'd only remembered it the other day, had been meaning to give it to him. He'd taken it and opened it in the car: old school papers, a binder, his SAT scores in an envelope he'd last seen in Ms. Simon's hand, her address, his name.

His old combination lock, cut from the locker years ago, back to him. Pi: magical number, endless three making an indivisible circle. Useless now, as were most things that you kept from high school. The box he threw into a dumpster in the back of a McDonalds. The lock he put carefully into the trunk, knew that Dean would wonder about it, but not ask.

They would leave in the morning, had packed already.

There was a last goodbye to make, however. He wasn't of a mind to do it alone, and so he didn't tell Dean where they were going. Didn't mean Dean hadn't guessed, though, because he seemed unsurprised when Sam asked him to pull off the Robert Moses State Parkway, to pay the stupid eight bucks and drive over to Goat Island.

The parking lot was almost empty; it was a Saturday, but there were other distractions on a day this cold. Dean didn't seem to mind that the mystery destination was the Falls; maybe he also had unfinished business, for all Sam knew. Dean was faking normal a little too well: he took evident pleasure in pointing out his old friend Tesla, cracked wise about how the inventor had been crazy and had visions. Looked at Sam knowingly, smiling the whole time.

Without discussion, they walked the length of Goat Island past the ranger station and down the steps to Luna Island, which hadn't really changed. It didn't look much different at all, in fact.

The Falls were noisy and huge and overwhelming. Sam stood quietly for a moment, taking in the enormity of it, felt small and insignificant. Good, in some way, to feel he wasn't all that important. He turned, wanting to see what Dean was making of it, but his brother still had that faraway look he could get, amused but not really there, a defense mechanism as effective as anger. The curve of railing was the same, same number of rungs, still inconsequential against the power of the Falls. If you wanted to go over, you'd go over.

Sam stared at Dean. "You hear anything?" Just testing.

Dean shook his head. Almost too loud for conversation. And certainly too cold, everything slicked with an icy mist. Eyes somewhere else. Then meeting Sam's. "What are we doing here, Sam?"

Sam shrugged. "Just hadn't been down, you know. When you're here, you should go, I guess." They walked to the angle of Luna where it dropped into the American Falls, a small distance that meant nothing and everything. Right where Toad had fallen. Had jumped. Had offered glory.

They huddled shoulder to shoulder at the edge, sunlight too bright, late afternoon, shadows long and slanted. Cold, empty. Behind them, a posse of Japanese tourists fanned out, chattering, no more intrusive than birds wheeling across the sky.

"You know," Sam began, when the tourists had moved out toward the Bridal Veil Falls. Dean tensed beside him. Annoying almost, this visceral reaction to _sharing_. "After I left, I tried not to think about you guys."

"Really?" Dean murmured, too low to actually be heard, his head down, eyes on the rushing water. Sam fucking hoped he wasn't hearing anything.

Sam wasn't going to get angry; it was what Dean wanted, for him to get distracted. Another defense mechanism: get Sam angry. "Yeah. I didn't know…I thought Dad would be glad to get rid of me."

Dean's head came up, but his eyes didn't leave the water. "Well, he wasn't."

Sam nodded. "I know that. Now." He looked at Dean so hard and for so long that his brother finally sighed and returned the stare. Lifted his eyebrows: what? Sam knew what he had to say, but not how to say it. "It must have been shit, left with him. After."

Dean held that stare, nothing of understanding or compassion in it. Finally, "It wasn't being _left_ with him, you fucking moron. Shit. Any day of the week I'd have done that. That wasn't it."

It wasn't being left with, it was being left _without_.

Sam had promised himself: no tears. So he bit the inside of his mouth, hard. Nodded. "Okay. Just so we're clear." He had to meet Dean's eyes so the apology would be worth something. "I'm sorry."

Sam could give it; didn't mean Dean was going to take it.

"Man, enough with the emo soul-baring, man. It was a long time ago." But he didn't seem quite so distant. They were shoulder to shoulder again, against the cold mist. Maybe Dean would save the apology for later, like Sam had given him a roll of mint Lifesavers or something.

They stared at the waters and Sam wondered what Toad would have become, had he not taken this route. Wondered how things might have been different, for all of them. Crazy thoughts. He tapped the railing, almost in exactly the same place their dad had, looking over, looking for what suddenly wasn't there.

He'd made mistakes, John Winchester. He hadn't wanted what had happened here, hadn't wanted what had followed. Had apparently gone a little mad, after. A little madder. And Dean wasn't going to talk about it. But he wouldn't have done anything differently; of that, Sam was sure.

"I'm hungry," Sam said, looking at Dean taking in water and rush and fall. "Let's get something to eat. Man o' War burger?"

Dean grinned, but was holding back: eyes serious. Sam took a few steps, hoping to draw Dean with him. Then, "Why don't you go ahead?" He tossed Sam the keys. "I'll catch up."

Sam stared at him. "No," he said. "I'm not leaving you alone-"

Dean interrupted. "Listen, I'm not going to do anything stupid. I just want…I just need-" And he couldn't say whatever it was that he wanted or needed. Typical. Didn't mean that Sam didn't know what Dean couldn't say. All Dean wanted, all he needed, right this second, was a little space. Sam could give that to him easily.

"Okay, okay." Sam held up his hands. "I'll wait for you in the car. Don't be too long."

Dean nodded, silent and grateful. "Ten minutes," he called after him, and Sam tried not to look worried, mostly because he didn't want Dean mad at him.

Sam walked up the stairs and when he got to the top he looked back, but Dean was still standing at the corner, hadn't moved. He could give Dean space, but it didn't mean he'd give him rope. So Sam leaned against the wooden railing at the top of the stairs, just watching. Or, more to the point, watching _over_, which was the least he could do.

--

_Utah and California, June 2001_

Sam was somewhere on the outskirts of Salt Lake City before he figured out what that goddamned noise was. The mechanical pinging had been going on for miles, a mystery. Random, inconsistent. Sam first remembered hearing it somewhere between Des Moines and Omaha, flat stretch of canola, canola, canola. Pinging. Muted and not lasting for long. Then in Cheyenne, very definite, but no one on the bus seemed to mind, they were sleeping and all Sam could really see were the headlights of other cars on the highway, endlessly passing, a lullaby from earliest memory.

Sam shut that down fast. He'd had enough weeping to last him a lifetime. Shit.

He'd found a book abandoned at the rest stop in Lincoln, and it was terrible. The dog-eared paperback detailed the machinations of lawyers who made deals with the Devil. Something inherently funny about it, on some level. So this is how the outside world sees it? he thought. Then the pinging again.

The only reason he figured it out in Salt Lake City was that he was sitting on the bus depot floor nursing a cup of coffee, his back against his duffle bag, when the pinging happened again.

He looked around. He wasn't on a moving bus; he was in a stinky bus depot avoiding people's eyes. Trying to wake himself up. Waiting for a bus link to San Francisco, scoured clean as an old pot. The book he'd left on the last bus. There was a reason people left books like that lying around, he'd figured out. He wished he'd find something by Dostoevsky or Faulkner, but that wasn't likely.

The pinging was coming from his duffle bag.

He opened it up, his hand rummaging through the clothing, and the pinging stopped almost as soon as he pulled out his cotton button up jacket. He hadn't worn it since that night on the golf course. Patting down the pockets, he soon found it: Dean's cell phone. He'd forgotten to return it.

He leaned against the wall, staring at it. Flipped it open; it seemed to have a charge. It took him until his bus was called to figure out how to access the missed calls menu.

Seven missed calls.

He settled into a seat and put the bag beside him, but it was a crowded bus and he soon had to give up the second seat to a middle-aged man who reeked of roll-your-own and Pepto Bismol. Despite his every signal to the contrary, Sam's ear was talked off for the rest of the trip. Worked out well in the end; Sam learned a few tricks for cheating at crib that he didn't already know. He didn't have to think about Niagara, about what had been left behind.

Seven missed calls, all from the same number.

When the phone rang again, the crib shark asked Sam if he was going to answer it. Sam shook his head, set down another hand, moved his pegs.

It was evening when they came into the Bay area, cresting the ridge, long slope to the ocean, bridges, the mountains dry and looming at their backs. The lights were stunning, made magnificent by the water, spangled across the hills like tears. Bright colors on the girders and beams, more exciting than any neon, than the flash of penny arcades.

Though he'd seen the Pacific on any number of occasions, it never failed to amaze Sam. It was vaster, somehow, than the Atlantic. It whispered of adventure, where the Atlantic was only about history. It was warm and the sand felt great between his toes.

He stood on a beach in June, phone in hand. He couldn't continue this, the not answering. He wouldn't hold out. He knew it was Dean, and that the break had to be clean. He'd lied to himself and said it wouldn't hurt as much if it was clean. That wasn't it, though.

If it was clean, it was _possible_. Nothing more, or less.

So he stood on the beach as the sun headed for Japan, staring at the horizon until his eyes streamed. A break was a break. Nothing clean about it. Tide going out, he thought, judging from the bracken strewn on the beach. Going out, sun sheeting gold, too bright to look at.

He threw the phone as hard as he could, far out into the Pacific, making the adjustment even as it flew away arcing silver in the fading sun, altered his world into a place where he was a singular person, no family, no ties. Alone, now, as the sun left him in a strange land lit with the dazzle of ersatz light.

--

_Niagara Falls NY, November 2006_

The older Sam got, the worse he got at keeping secrets. Or maybe Dean had just gotten better at spotting them, having been stung once, having been blindsided. Dean had known from the hitch in Sam's voice, _Hey, wanna take a drive?_ From the soft eyes, the way he'd tried to smile and couldn't cover the sadness.

Dean knew they were going to the Falls and somehow maybe that wasn't a bad idea. Maybe there was a point to it. Maybe the misery in Sam would fade a little, saying a final goodbye. He hadn't had the chance five years ago.

Making sense of _then_ was hard enough for Dean, let alone what had happened in the gym, when Sam had said that he'd go with the Demon-plagued Billy, that they'd work it out together. Sam was going to go with Billy and nothing had made Dean feel more exposed and terrified than that.

_Save him_, John had said.

_Goddamn it, Dad,_ Dean whispered, aware he'd said it out loud. He didn't care. He'd seen what a boy was capable of doing when the Demon had gone deep and he knew that Sam would rather be dead than be another Billy, but that didn't mean Dean would be the one to end it for him. _Dad_, he pleaded. _How could you ask this of me?_

But even as he thought it, the fury slipped away, evaporated like the water falling from the cliff, atomized. He found no purchase on his anger, what had sustained him for these last few months. It wasn't fair, being angry at his father. John had carried it for years, this knowledge. Save Sam. Take care of him.

_I can do that. _

_Where are you?_ he asked the roar of the Falls, not expecting any kind of answer. _Where are you when I need you?_ He didn't require an answer; he already knew where John Winchester was, and that was also unfair_. I don't know if I can save you_, _Dad_, he thought, and that hurt, because he was supposed to take care of them all.

Even though he'd slept a lot in the last few days, it wasn't enough. Sleep was the only place it went away, the hollowness, the gaping hole. Sleep didn't erase it, didn't make him feel rested. It was just respite. Temporary shelter.

_I'll come get you Dad. I promise. But I gotta look after Sam first._ Dean had been in this position before, standing at a precipice, at a fork in the river, and he'd made a choice, the one that didn't involve gassing up and driving all the way to California.

Today, though. Today was different; things had changed.

He reached inside his coat to retrieve the tape. When Sam had gotten that look in his eye, the one that signaled 'unfinished business', Dean knew it was time. There was no reason to hang on to this piece of evidence.

He wasn't the guy on the tape; what had happened in the Tennessee convenience store was rage, pure and simple. The rage had vanished, and in its wake this awful exhaustion. Dad was gone in all the ways that mattered, and this was where the river was going now. With Sam.

Dean didn't so much throw the tape as let gravity take it, slipped into the froth of a river gone mad, disappearing forever. He stared into its maw, felt the pull, would always feel the pull, not quite over, over, over. But close. Always close.

Finally, after a long time, he looked up and across the river to Canada, saw the lights starting to come on, the night falling slowly. Bright. False. Turned, saw Sam standing at the top of the stairs, watching him.

Stupid idiot. It was freezing. He should have waited in the car.

Glad, suddenly, that he hadn't.

--

-30-

a/n: This has been a rather unlovable fic, dealing with a lot of messy and unpleasant things. I thank you readers for sticking with it. I'm a big fan of the happy ending, or at least one that hints at grace. So you get just a whiff of it here, in the end. The action in _Dazzleland_ is positioned between two episodic bookends – I had to get the boys to how they are in _Croatoan_, how Dean ended up saying that he's 'tired of this life' rather than the anger and guilt over what deal John had struck with the yellow-eyed Demon, what we saw in _Crossroad Blues_.

So, next up? Sheer fluff.

Also? I'm going to Niagara Falls at Easter! I'm so freaking excited. I'll post some pictures. Might have been more timely had I done it _before_ writing the fic, but what can you do? Dazzleland, here I come! I could use the distraction of brightshiny.

--


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